


After The High

by bakerstreetashtray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Inspired by the leather clothes only), And lots more bad things, Birdland, M/M, Mormor AU, Rockstar!Jim, Sex, Violence, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:46:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 66,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1470361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakerstreetashtray/pseuds/bakerstreetashtray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Rockstar AU]</p><p>Jim Moriarty is 'The Magpie', an eccentrically talented rockstar who has the world at his feet. Sebastian Moran is drafted in as a last minute bodyguard on one of his tour dates, and scoffs at the idea of babysitting the rude, soft-spoken and leather-clad ego that is the star of the show. But everyone has their secrets, and 'The Magpie' is no exception. And he never could resist showing off for an audience..<br/><i>mormorphone.tumblr.com</i></p><p><img/><img/><br/>Art by <a href="http://hippano.tumblr.com/post/83635184126">hippano</a> because how utterly perfect is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Magpie

_Fame is a killer. It's the sweetest cancer. The high that can't be rivaled, no matter how much you try. It's the tourniquet around his arm, the sweet liquid pulsing through his veins even before he's on the stage. It's the eyes of every man and woman in the room, glassy with lust as he juts out his hips, just once, to the beat. The screams, the howling shrieks of the rolling tide, the hordes of desperate watchers as they surge towards him, swaying furiously to the rhythmic lull of his voice. It's the desperate bargaining at the stage door, the sobbing and the shaking, just for the glimpse of him; sweating and exultant and basking in the afterglow of his worship. It's thirty thousand people, wanting to touch and taste. To praise, and bow before him. To take off their clothes for him._

 

 

_Fame is a killer. And it's made a murderer of him._

 

 

\--

 

 I'm twenty six. I wish I could tell you that it means something, but it fucking doesn't. You feel the same at twenty five, and you feel the same at twenty seven. When life stopped calling out to you a long time ago, you tend not to take age too seriously anymore. The ticking of the fucking clock, and tearing off a page of the calendar in my godawful kitchen that I swear gets fucking smaller by the day. But the fact is, I'm twenty six. The name's Sebastian, but I haven't had anyone use the full name since my first day in the army. Shut that down pretty quickly. 

They let me keep the uniform. I'm never sure that I should be grateful for that. It's a fucking sad man that walks around his tiny flat, dressed in the colours that made him an outcast. The disgraced soldier. 'Disgrace' is relative, though. I'm still proud of what I did. I was twenty four, rising steadily through the ranks at that point. The outfit hangs in my wardrobe, as useless and fucking offensive to me as a costume. That's all it is, now.

 I'm sitting in my arm chair when it happens. 

 I like to think of life as a series of strings. There's a puppeteer up there somewhere - and don't get me wrong, I'm not the  religious type - but fucking Christ, has he got it out for me. But he likes to play with me. And this day - this fucking day in particular, was the first tug on my strings. I'm using my laptop, the battered old thing so knackered that I can't use more than one page at a time. It's plugged into the wall. I'm sipping a can of something vile, but I don't care any more. The site advertises security jobs. General stuff. Shopping centres, closed banks, construction sites. It's all I can fucking get now, and even then I have to lie about my dishonorable discharge. None of them ever check.

  **Backstage Security  
** **The London O2  
** **2 Nights Work  
** **Looking for experienced bouncer/guards**

I've already emailed about three jobs today and heard nothing, so I figure I might as well give it a shot. I drain the rest of the can, crumple it, and toss it somewhere. Anywhere. Within twenty minutes, my phone rings, and I answer. It's only the damned arena about this job. Must be my lucky day, I think bitterly, jotting down the details. Address. Code for the door. My contact. They give me a rushed interview over the phone, and then it's done. Got the job. They must be fucking desperate. I could be a murderer. Well.. Debatable. 

 \--

 I arrive at 6.00pm on the dot, two hours before the gig starts. I say gig.. I whistle as I look around the arena, the place so damned huge that there must be at least five hundred more like me. Hopefully not so shoddily recruited. I head in a rough approximation of backstage, keying in the code I was given, and poking my head around the door, finding myself in a series of fucking endless corridors. Eventually, I run into someone, and demand gruffly to be shown to Lisa. Turns out that Lisa is the one dashing around like a fucking headless chicken, red hair that looks like it was once in a ponytail, now hanging down in wild tendrils by her face. She speaks a mile a minute, and I can't understand a word that she says, but I let her herd me towards a door, and she gives a forced smile as she knocks, a burly man appearing after a moment.

"Rocky, this is.."  
"..Seb."  
"This is Seb. He'll be one of the bodyguards."  
"..Bodyguards?" I turn to her a little uneasily, my lips pursed into a flat frown. "We said backstage work. Bouncer work." It's not that I don't think I can handle it. But fucking babysitting isn't exactly what I do best, and if you knew my discharge, you'd know why.   
"..Is there a problem?" Rocky asks slowly, his voice the same thick growl that I'd expect from a meathead, the arena's t shirt so tight around his torso that it might as well be fucking painted on.

"No." I say at last, though I'm pissed off. Money is money, and I have rent to pay. I shrug, and meet his gaze stonily. "..It's fine. I'll do it."

 

\--

 

Lisa hurries off again, already speaking into her headset and simultaneously noting something on a clipboard, and Rocky looks me up and down, before shrugging. "Go get two lattes." He says eventually, and I raise an eyebrow, not believing what I'm fucking hearing.  
"What?" I say slowly, with just the hint of a threat behind the word.  
"Two lattes. One no milk."  
He closes the door in my face, and I see now that it must be a fucking dressing room. I could groan when I realise that it's that little prick. 'The Magpie', it says on the door, a small, neat piece of card framed by red stars, and I grimace at it, turning on my heel to go and find the damned coffee - though I'm only making one for myself. I'm not a fucking teaboy. Not in my job description. 

 

The Magpie. Fucking Christ. My frown deepens as I march through the hallways, scowling at all in my path. We had a couple of girls back in our battalion, and one was obsessed with 'The Magpie', the way some men are obsessed with plastering their fucking bunks with tit pictures. She'd been to see fourteen of his shows, she said. Isn't he the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen, she said. I wasn't the only one to laugh, to scoff at the pictures of the man, clad in his fucking tight leather with his.. make-up and his.. fucking.. feathers. I'd gotten over it in the end. Kelly was a tough bird. She could take the banter, and teased back just as hard about the tit pictures.

 

Having located the coffee machine and made myself a black coffee, I saunter back through the halls, and they're getting busier. More people like Lisa rushing around, frazzled and screaming into headsets, or looking enviously at my coffee. Calls go out on the speaker system for people I don't know, and I gather that I've already missed the sound check, if there was one. Must be nearing show time. When I reach the dressing room again, Rocky walks out and gives me a pointed look as I sip my drink, and I tilt my chin at him, just daring him to make it an issue. He shakes his head, and I swear I see the hint of a grin on the meathead's face. He disappears around the corner with Lisa, the two of them discussing something on the clip board, and I hear angry voices from the dressing room. Before I can step inside, a young girl appears, clutching a tray in both hands and looking like she's about to fucking cry. I frown at her, and she bursts into tears. At the sound, he comes pacing out of the dressing room.

 

'Magpie'.

He's shorter than me, though his anger gives him a 'presence' - or maybe he thinks that he fucking has that, anyway. He wears the tightest damned leather trousers I've ever seen, and his torso is toned and muscled, though not like mine. He's been 'sculpted' clearly, and does just enough work to maintain his shape. But fuck, I can only tell because the only thing he wears aside from the trousers is some damn feathered vest. I give a snort of laughter at the sight of him, hair purposely fucking 'mussed' and black lightly ringing dark eyes, the consummate rock star. He fucking wishes. He storms from the room, and presses the girl back against the door frame, his body domineering, oppressive against hers as he squares up to her, his words a low and threatening murmur.

"Now sweetheart.. if you don't bring me back something I can actually drink, I'm going to wait until after the show, and then I'm going to hunt you  _down_." His words are quiet, a slight Irish lilt to them, and I watch for a few moments, fucking intrigued. He sounds like he could be offering her a fucking cup of tea. "..And I will cut you open." He drags a hand across the girl's throat with a pleasant smile, and she blubbers again, and I can't watch this any more.

"Alright." I say, rolling my eyes. I step forward and tug him back by the shoulder, and the girl runs off, her crying audible down the hall as the two lattes shake and spill on the tray. Magpie turns to me, and I'm expecting outrage. The spoiled tantrum of a fucking star, but he just raises an eyebrow at me. Those black eyes start at mine, and skim down my body, and I have the urge to straighten my blacks, but why should I? I stare the little fucker down, and he tilts his head to the side and smiles, though the action doesn't quite reach his eyes. It's unsettling, actually. 

"And who," He begins, in that same quiet drawl. "..Are you, my dear?"

"I'm not your dear." I reply, my voice gruff and roll my eyes. "I'm your bodyguard. Apparently."

"Rocky's my bodyguard." Magpie drawls amusedly, folding his arms and leaning back against his doorframe with a tilt of his head. I release his shoulder, and shrug.

"Guess he needed help." I answer flatly, before looking after where the girl ran off to. "Don't blame him."

Magpie stretches where he's leaning, and I grimace at the sight of his body, the vest falling open. I'm no stranger to men's bodies now, but the little fucker is cocky, and his dead eyes shine as he catches the direction of my gaze. "..Name?" He asks lazily.

"Seb."

_"Seb_. Sebaaaaastian then, I assume." He straightens, and smooths the lapels of the feathered vest back into place, eyeing me with an intensity that becomes unsettling after a moment, especially when I spot the tongue pressed against the inside of his lip. "You're rather pretty.." He muses, and I roll my eyes.

"You're a cocky little shit." I mutter. "I can tell."

"Mm.." Magpie smiles, and closes his eyes just as the call goes over the speakers for him, and there are footsteps thundering back down the hall. "That's my _cu - ue_.." He sings, and then steps forward, quite unexpectedly reaching down to cup my crotch with a firm hand. I'm not prepared for it, and a stuttered sound leaves my throat, my first instinct to push him back. I'm too late. He's already released me, and is sauntering down the hall, all leather and feathers and a cocky, lilting laugh. 

 

"We're going to get on famously, my dear." He calls back, and his words are teasing. They send heat into my face and an indignant anger into my stomach. I'll kill him. Fucking star or not, this isn't going to end well for him. I open my mouth to call something back, but he's already been swallowed into the throngs of the waiting entourage. 

 

That was the second string. 

 

\--

 


	2. Watch Him Sing

I'm fucking seething, and the show is just beginning. I stand, my arms folded across my chest backstage, runners and crew flitting past and around me, the faces becoming a blur. I concentrate on Magpie. Nobody touches me like that and gets away with it. If it had been back at the barracks, I'd have snapped his toned little arm in two. He's surrounded by the entourage again seconds before he goes onstage, and even in my raging haze, I have to admit that it's quite the experience. The roar of the crowd is palpable, like a force only metres away, and if I crane my neck, I can see the elaborate stage, see the blinding lights. Magpie stands beside the stage, his eyes closed and a slight smile on his face, the picture of ease as someone touches up his eyeliner, and another combs through his feathers. Fucking hell, there's even someone oiling up his chest - though he slaps them away after a moment, and I snort, shaking my head and looking away. The opening chords of a song begin, and he puts out his arms, his entourage stepping back, hurrying away with clipboards and make-up bags. 

 

The song builds up, and he runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. He shoots me a look, and I stare back venomously. The little shit gives me a wink, and then saunters onto the stage. The crowd is deafening, and I wince at the overwhelming sound, a passing runner slipping me a pair of ear plugs. I shove them in reluctantly. I can still hear, but it isn't uncomfortable. Magpie laughs quietly into the microphone, and the crowd is surging again. I can see them this time, if I stand in the right place in the wings. He begins to sing, and I raise my eyebrows. His voice is a little familiar, I suppose. Maybe I've heard it on Kelly's radio, or maybe passing through a shop. I can't place it. There's no denying that the cocky fucker can sing. His voice is like melting chocolate, all.. sex and breath, his mouth hovering by the microphone as he dances with the damn stand. I don't even realise that I've been watching him until Rocky nudges me, and I jump, giving a shrug that's a little too aggressive. He tries to speak to me, but I point to the ear plugs, and he laughs, shaking his head and walking away.

 

I turn my attention back to Magpie, folding my arms across my chest. He has his head tilted back, the microphone held to his lips as he passes a hand down his bare torso, fingers slicking slowly through the oil. I can't help it. My mouth goes dry, and I swallow, glancing away for a moment. It's as if he fucking senses it. When I glance back up, he's staring straight at me from the stage, directing his lyrics straight at me with that growling, breathy fucking voice. I don't even need to register the echoing words to understand that they're sexual, and shoot him a grimace in return, though he gives a smug smile and turns his focus back to his audience, finishing the song on his knees to uproarious applause. 

 

Back stage, a few of our crew are clapping too, and I roll my eyes at them. The next song begins, and it's more upbeat, but he plays it with the same sultry sensuality, crawling onto the stage sets, kicking out with the microphone and ending up on his back, legs in the air and a hand extended towards the audience. I miss the next few songs - Rocky pulls me back down to the dressing room, piling me high with clothes, but I miss what he actually fucking says, unable to take out the ear plugs. He pushes me back towards the stage, and I'm swearing beneath my breath, trying to sort through the damn things. Feathers, leather, sequins and black everywhere. Magpie's clothes, then. The stage hands relieve me of them, and I resume my place to watch him on stage, Magpie now grinding up against the microphone pole, the feather vest thrown off somewhere behind him. Cocky git.

 

He finishes the number and dashes off stage, breathing hard as the stage hands strip him. I watch, blinking, a little surprised, but he finds my gaze and smiles amusedly, clearly not at all ashamed by his body as he is stripped down to a fucking thong of all things, and then dressed straight back up in an alternate, jaggedly torn pair of skinny leather trousers. They bind his bare chest in crime scene tape, criss crossing over him and tying at the back, and then he's back on stage for the second half, immediately leaping up onto a balcony set and draping himself over it.

"Fucking  - he'll fall-" I mutter, already starting out instinctively towards the stage. If this is my job, I'll take it damn seriously. Two stagehands - and Rocky - stop me. Rocky is laughing again, and he just points, Magpie already hanging from the balcony with one hand, and then dropping down onto both feet, before strutting across the stage, his song about fucking in the back of a car. He gives a slow, sultry mime of a steering wheel, and I tilt my head to watch as he bends down. He does a handstand, and I'm swearing again, and Rocky laughs at me, the idiot obviously used to this kind of circus display. Again, he's back on his feet within seconds, and rolling his hips against the mike stand. It goes on like this for another hour and a half, and I stand, transfixed, a steady point amongst the flitting staff. He does three encores, and then finally comes backstage, his eyes alight and glittering.

 

\--

 

"Amazing-"  
"-absolutely showstopping-"  
"Brilliant.."  
"-So magnifice-.."

Magpie is immediately surrounded by his entourage again, and they herd him back to his dressing room, praising and congratulating him, kissing him and touching his hands. I curse under my breath, trying to follow, to elbow my way through the admirers to reach the cocky shit in the centre, his eyeliner smudged, his hair mussed and his body streaked with sweat and whatever black, glittering body paint they used in that last number. I finally manage to reach him, curling my fingers around his upper arm, and tug out my ear plugs as we walk. He doesn't even acknowledge me, despite all his looks and his fucking winking. For some reason, it makes me angry. He grabbed my cock, for fuck's sake. We reach the dressing room, and I am unforgiving about pushing the followers out, physically grabbing a young guy by the collar and shoving him outside the door, before locking it. Not even Rocky has made it back yet.

I'm breathless when I finally turn around, and see him pacing, tearing off his crime scene tape with eager hands, still coated with that black glitter. His eyes are wild, and he grins at me, running his hands through his hair and then shaking them, near bouncing on the spot. I eye him dubiously. He looks like a ticking fucking bomb.   
"..You alright?" I ask carefully, forgetting for the moment that the cocky shit needs to pay for touching me earlier.  
"I need to go out." He answers, his voice firm and determined, run through with a kind of excitement. "Out. Come on. I need it. Now. You. Out. Let's  _GO_."  
He screams the last word, with a determined anger that makes me raise my eyebrows, catching me off guard. It must be the high of the show. And it was a damn good show, even I have to admit. He might be a cocky fucker, but he's good at what he does.

 

"Are you allowed to do that?" I ask doubtfully, and he marches over to me, fisting his hands in my hair and kissing me full on the mouth - though I immediately pull back, gasping, a little fucking surprised. "What the hell-"

"I do whatever I want." He says flatly, and turns, opening the window wide. 

"Magpie-" I say, lunging towards him, "Don't-"

"My name is Jim." He says flatly, eyes still sparkling darkly with the kind of madness and adrenaline that's pretty fucking scary, actually. And then he jumps.

 

I only need about three seconds. One to curse beneath my breath, one to measure the height we're at, and another to watch 'Jim', crazy fucker already pacing determinedly over the grass towards the concrete path. 

And I jump too.

 

\--


	3. See Him Play

I'm swearing as I drop down onto the grass, landing on my feet but staggering to the side. I frown, straighten my t shirt and begin to chase after him, the fucker walking with a saunter along the path. I catch up to him with a shove, taking hold of his arm.   
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I demand, and he tries to tug his arm from my grasp, still walking. I catch sight of his eyes again, and they're glittering, maddening, set on the busy city centre that we're walking towards. I swallow. It's fucking dangerous, and I'm not sure I can handle this by myself. He's world famous, and he's just finished a concert. His fans will be thick on the streets, and even if they weren't, he's bound to be recognised. Mobbed. We'll be mobbed. He must know that. But he perseveres, seemingly ignoring my hold on his arm as he swaggers ahead, walking into the first bar he sees. I figure that maybe it's a test, but I'm not getting paid enough for this shit.

 

 

I follow him inside after a minute, and he's sitting at the bar - attracting a few looks from the older men sat nursing their pints, in just his skintight leather trousers and black, glittery body paint. He orders himself a drink from the bar girl, and she's making eyes at him, obviously recognising him even if - thank fuck - the elderly customers don't. Or maybe they do, but they just don't care. I sit beside him, ordering myself a whiskey - just the one, I don't tend to drink on the job - and glaring at him stonily. He still seems to move where he's sat, a foot tapping on the rung of his stool, and his fingers drumming ceaselessly on the counter. His eyes are wild, and he's talking to the bargirl, laughing raucously at whatever she's saying, and taking her hand, kissing it with a wink. I'm not sure who's more surprised. He's been fucking flirting with me all night, though I suppose he seems the type to fuck anything with a pulse. I drain my drink in one, and mutter something about having a cigarette. I warn him to stay where he is as I stalk past, but he doesn't even look up, the bar girl half leaning over the counter towards him, elbows pressing her tits together.

 

Lighting up in cupped hands as I lean against the brick of the bar, the air is cool, and I close my eyes as I inhale, blowing out my smoke impatiently. This is a hell of a fucking night. Despite my protests, I've found myself lumbered with babysitting anyway. In particular, babysitting a spoilt little rockstar who doesn't know how to keep his fucking hands to himself. I'd give him a black eye if they wouldn't bollock me for it. Probably be a big deal, marring the star's perfect face. I grimace and take another drag, resolving instead to shove a few grisly threats his way. Maybe break a few fingers, if he tries anything else. Kid needs to know who he's playing with. After a long five minutes, I grind the stub of my fag under my heel and head back inside, freezing when I see that he's not there. He's not sitting at the counter, nor is he in any of the booths when I pace around, cursing beneath my breath. Little.. fucker..  
"You got a back door?" I ask the landlord gruffly, the man polishing glasses. He jabs a thumb through the back, and I force my way past, jogging past cases of beer and boxes of crisps, before tearing open the wooden door at the back - and swearing loudly.   
Magpie - Jim - has his face contorted in concentration, lip caught between his teeth as he ruts madly, the girl bending over for him squealing like a fucking pig as he fucks her, skirt up around her waist. Her tits are bouncing as I watch, horrified, and Jim's hands are digging into her skin, the both of them groaning and fucking gasping.They're in a glorified alleyway behind the bar, overflowing bins and boxes stacked high around them. The girl holds onto a rusty railing at the side of the door. Jim laughs breathlessly when he sees me, and I slam the door, leaning back against it and grimacing. I'm not getting paid enough for this, Jesus Christ.

 

Well, I can't fucking stop him. My skin crawling, I stalk back into the bar to wait, ordering another drink. The landlord looks at me questioningly and I just shake my head, drinking it in one. He starts talking to me - asking me what I'm doing with Magpie, if he comes around here often, if he's going to make a habit of taking his bar girls out back, nudge nudge, wink wink. I grimace, and answer as simply as I can, treating myself to a third drink. I finish it, and stand, stalking through to the back again, not waiting any longer. He has to be fucking done by now, for God's sake. I tug open the door again with a grim expression, and they're gone, but I can hear voices a little further down the alley.   
"Jim?" I call resignedly, and begin walking down, hearing a shrill scream in response. I frown, my brow crinkling in unease and break into a jog, eyes widening as I round the corner and see him, holding the bar girl against the wall by her throat.

"The fuck are you-" I begin angrily, stalking over, but something glints in his hand, and he grins at me before he swipes it neatly across her neck, the skin splitting and blooming crimson. I see it happen in slow motion.  The girl crumples onto the concrete, dead before she even fell, and I stand, my mouth hanging open for a moment, utterly frozen in shock. I can feel my own pulse, hear the blood rushing in my ears. Jim stands, his eyes closed, breathing in deeply as if basking in the sensation. He runs his fingers across the bloodied blade in his fingers. If I'd eaten anything, I'd empty the contents of my stomach onto the concrete.

 

"Call Rocky." He drawls after a moment, opening his eyes to look at me, smiling lazily as he tucks the knife away and saunters from the body, his arms outstretched and fingers skimming lightly across the brickwork on either side of the alley. He tips his head back, and my eyes swivel to the dead girl. Call Rocky. Call Rocky?

 

"What the fuck is going on?" I ask, taking a step closer, my voice low, a slight tremble of rage running through the words. I'm confused. I'm livid. I didn't know the girl, but it's a fucking waste.. Where did he get that knife? What the hell is he playing at? His career.. he's just fucking chucked it all down the pan.

 

"Fine." Jim sighs, still facing away from me, examining a bloodied hand in the air as I watch, transfixed with something like horror and loathing. His fingers are crimson, black and glittering in the shine of the streetlight. He walks over to me slowly, his saunter slow and lazy, and slips a hand into my trouser pocket, winking as he does so. That wild edge in his eyes has gone. I realise with a churn of my stomach that he looks.. satisfied. I can't tell if it's from the sex, or the murder. 

 

He pulls out my phone, lazily tapping at the screen, and then holds it to his ear, letting his grubby fingers draw slow lines on my cheek. I haven't yet decided if I'm going to kill him.  It seems just. I'm all about justice. I remain motionless.

  
"Rocky.." He drawls pleasantly, dragging out the vowels as a voice answers. "Another one, sweet. Yes." His eyes flick to the sign above our heads. "Behind the Belle Bar. In the City.." I grimace at him, and he puts a finger to my lips. I can taste the blood without even trying, can smell it on him. I glare at him, his knife clattering against my phone as he holds it. "No. No, I'm the only one here. I simply didn't want to wait. Clean it up, won't you? Thank you. Thanks, my darling. Night night."

He clicks off the call, and presents my phone back to me with a simpering smile. I snatch it back and step away, keeping an eye on that knife. He folds it away, and slips it down into the pocket of the leather trousers. He didn't say I was here. Didn't say I was with him. What does that mean? And.. Rocky? Another one?

  
"You do this a lot." I summarise with a spitting venom, grimacing at him in disbelief. My eyes flick back to the girl, crumpled and motionless. It's beginning to rain. He has the gall to stretch, putting his arms above his head and yawning, before turning and heading out of the alley. I don't think he's going to answer, and then he does, glancing back to beckon me with him. I go, more following numbly than actually deciding to accompany him..

"Darling," He says, stroking my cheek rather pityingly, and sauntering ahead, words lazy and self assured. "..I do whatever I want."

I think it's beginning to become his catchphrase.

 

 

 


	4. Back for More

I wake up the next day at about one in the afternoon, and just lay there, staring at my ceiling and wondering what the fuck I've gotten myself into. 

 

After leaving the bar, we walked back to the arena in silence, Jim even stopping to give autographs and take photos with a gaggle of his fans along the way. I stood by, numb, just fucking waiting for them all to leave us alone, for him to explain what the hell was going on. Some of them were the same damn age as the one he just slaughtered. He sees them off with a wink and a wave. Of course, my explanation never came. He'd hum under his breath and blankly ignore my questions, or take out his knife and turn it between his fingers, something I took as a silent threat. It unnerved me how fucking at peace with the world he seemed. 

Reaching the arena, Rocky met us at the stage door, and herded Jim inside, giving me a pat on the back and telling me that I'd be needed tomorrow night. Same time. Same place. I tried to follow, but he closed the door in my face again. I had no choice but to get the bus home, the whole time just fucking cycling the events of the night through my head. The Magpie and his show. The crowd, roaring his name. Jim, cavorting across the stage, the epitome of sex and musicality. And then the other fucking side of him. The crazed look on his face as he mashed his mouth against mine and then leapt out of the window. The exultant, breathless laugh when I caught him fucking the girl. The satisfaction seeping through his expression when she crumpled, bloodied onto the concrete. 

 

I let the images run through my mind all day, long after I've gotten out of bed for coffee and toast, though I don't have much of an appetite. I haven't had this much excitement since I was back in a warzone, and even then, it was nothing like this. I wonder again why he didn't tell Rocky that I was with him, and then shake my head. I feel like I know exactly why. Trying to unnerve me. Just like he'd been doing the whole night, grabbing my crotch, winking to me from the stage.. kissing me.. and fucking laughing when I caught him balls deep in the alleyway. I shake my head, and drain my coffee.

 

At regular intervals, I'm checking the local news, the internet, looking for a girl killed behind a bar. A police hunt, or a world famous rockstar arrested for murder. Nothing. Not even on the radio. I'm obsessing over it, but I still feel as though I should be more bothered than I am. I could have saved her, if I'd moved quickly enough. I'd be an accessory to murder, now. He's fucking dragged me into his mess. Still, I think distractedly, being in trouble with the law is hardly new to me. And it doesn't even look as though he'll get caught. I have to stop for a moment, and run  a hand across my jaw, perturbed at the thought of how many there have been before this. The curve of his knife was so practiced. His calm 'call Rocky' so lazy. Almost bored. I shudder. I'm horrified, but.. impressed.

 

It's nearly six. I get dressed in my blacks again, and have to double check for blood flecks. I'm fairly sure that I couldn't have been hit from so far away, but I feel paranoid, as if the whole world will know what I did - or didn't do. Funnily enough, it's not the first time I've felt like this. But never about someone else's hit. My dishonourable discharge was a fairly proud moment.  I'm jittery on the ride to the arena, and when I arrive, I stalk past Lisa and the rest of the crew, none of them seeming any  different to yesterday. Like the whole fucking world hasn't changed overnight, and like they don't know that there's a cocky little murderer in their midst. I reach the dressing room and knock, and Rocky answers, greeting me with a nod. He leaves the dressing room with a steaming coffee, and I step inside, closing the door behind me. Jim glances up, and he's wearing a tight t shirt, paired with his leather trousers, feet crossed on the dressing table.  
"Oh, it's you.." He hums, tilting his head at me, and I raise an eyebrow.

"It's me? That's all you can say?" I repeat a little incredulously, folding my arms across my chest and leaning back against the wall.

Jim smiles a simpering smile, setting down the coffee cup that he'd been toying with, and laces his fingers. "What would you like me to say?" He asks sweetly, and I purse my lips, a muscle pulsing in my jaw.

"Listen." I say, and my voice is low as I advance on him. He doesn't so much as twitch, and I feel the black eyes boring into my own. "I don't know what the fuck sort of arrangement you have going on here-"

"We." Jim interrupts, the word simple and pleasant.

"What?"

"Oh, I don't know." He smiles again, and it's toothy, mocking me. "How many years in prison would one get for 'accessory to murder'?  We're in this together now, my sweet."

 

"...No. I couldn't have done anything." I spit back at him, and he blinks, raising his eyebrows amusedly. "I couldn't have saved her. You're a fucking monster."

His smile fades just a touch. "It's a coping mechanism." He says simply, but his tone is measured, no longer as playful. He takes his feet from the table.

"Coping? A fucking.. You couldn't just take some coke?"

He grimaces, and I throw my arms out to the side, exasperated. "What? Coke too much for you? You killed a girl."

"I've tried them all." He says simply, opening his hands as if it's as easy as that. He gives a mock pout that makes my blood boil. "..None of them work."

I laugh, and it's a bitter, incredulous sound.   
"So you..? You have these fuckers follow you around, cleaning up your messes. Your _murders_."

"Oh, please." Jim bats a hand, and stands, slipping his fingers beneath the t shirt and peeling it off slowly, tossing it at me. I catch it, and immediately throw it down onto a chair, regretting the reflex. He reaches for the feather vest, and continues, his words matter-of-fact. "These people are just  _dying_  to fuck me. I've heard them say it. I'm simply giving them what they want."

"You're.. not supposed to take that literally." I say flatly, though feel a stab of dark amusement through my horror. I'm a fucking bastard.

"If I don't come down from the high, then I'll kill myself." He continues, words a slow drawl as he straightens the vest, and I shake my head, appalled. He turns around to smile at me. "Which is the bigger tragedy here?"

Cocky bastard.

"And you'll think I'll stand by and let you kill another innocent person tonight, do you?" 

Jim looks at me, and begins to saunter over. I have to force myself to stand still, to stare him down. He presses himself against me, and runs his fingers down my cheek, before raising himself up onto his toes and kissing me on the mouth. I force myself not to react, to grimace back at him and not leave a dent in that pretty little face. It's a humiliation tactic. It has to be.

"Yes." He murmurs, pulling back with a smile, voice sickly sweet. "I think you will. And the next night. And the next."

 

I pointedly drag my arm across my mouth, and pace away, shaking my head. "Not your lucky night, mate. You move on tomorrow. Sheffield, isn't it?"

The Magpie turns away, and musses his hair in the mirror, his Irish lilt both bored and amused when he speaks.

"Oh, yes. You'll be coming with me. I rather like you."

 

"Over my dead body." I spit, and he smirks, walking past me with a cloud of hairspray, aftershave and the smell of leather. His call goes out over the speaker, and I hear the entourage gathering at the door, waiting to spew him onto the stage.

 

"Don't speak too soon." He drawls, winks and opens the door, heading out to his next show.

 


	5. Force My Hand

I'm standing at the side of the stage, watching Jim writhe his way through another song, trying to pretend that my mouth hasn't gone dry, watching those hips roll against the mike stand, his lips crooning breathily, his filthy lyrics echoing around the arena. The crowd goes wild again, and I'm not sure the noise is something I could ever get used to. I haven't been lucky enough to find earplugs this time. My eyes settle on the expanse of skin visible through the vest, skim over the legs that part so easily to let him sink down onto his knees for his audience. I hate him. I fucking hate him, and his highs, and his lack of any sort of morals.  

 

Midway through the second half, I run into Rocky and pace over to him, my expression stony, "I need to speak to you." I say, and he narrows his eyes at me just a little, before slapping a hand on my back with a nod, guiding me off into the back room. "Just two minutes." He says, "Got stuff to do. You know how it is."

You know how it is? I'm sure you've had a busy night, I think angrily, wondering who had to scrape up the bar girl from the alleyway floor.

"You're letting him fucking kill people." I say flatly, fixing him with a glare as I slam the door behind us. Better get straight to the point. I expect Rocky to have some kind of fucking respect, to at least try and deny it, or give some kind of explanation. He doesn't say anything for a long few moments, but he doesn't look worried.  
"Yeah." He says simply, and runs a hand through his hair, muscles still bulging through the comically small t shirt from the arena. "Yeah, I am."

 

I'm looking at him with a kind of incredulity, and he's looking at me with a resigned kind of pity. And I recognise it. I fucking recognise it. He's planning for me to be next on Jim's list. I straighten at the realisation, and shake my head infinitesimally, a bitter smile on my lips.  
"You're sick." I spit. "The both of you are sick."

Rocky nods slowly, and he has the nerve to look slightly ashamed, though he shrugs, and nods at me.  
"Yet here you are." He says gruffly, and I look away, irritated. He goes on. "Could have called the police. But you didn't. You showed up here again."

"Maybe I wanted to know what the fuck was going on." I counter, and he shrugs, already making for the door.

"What's it gonna be then?" He sighs and asks boredly, and I can see him, listening to the last notes of Magpie's song, waiting for the start of the next. I know what he's asking. Am I choosing death, or am I choosing to stay? Such a question shouldn't be offered so fucking lightly, but yet it is, and I'm expected to choose now. He taps his fingers on the door knob, and I wonder what he'd do if I said that I was going to leave. Try and knock me out, maybe? Tie me up, leave me for his homicidal, hyped up little star to find later?

I could run. Pack my things and move out of London. Be at Heathrow and out of the country in an hour. Or - more likely - I could tackle the cocky little shit head on - he wouldn't have a chance, even with his tiny blade. Even with his blood lust.  Or I could join them.  Kill innocent people. Let him kill, just for his kicks. No option seems right. Call me dishonourable until the cows come home, but I can't just fucking stand by and watch him hurt young girls. Young boys, even. But I can't leave now, either. Too involved. Naturally, Seb. 

"..Staying." I say grimly, and he rolls his eyes, obviously having anticipated that response and leaves the room. "Sheffield bus leaves at 11am," He calls back, and I run my hands through my hair, grimacing at the doorframe. I  wait until he's gone and then kick the wall, angered by how fucking easily I've been drawn into whatever the fuck this is. And then, a little ashamedly, I follow. It's the last song, after all, and I want to see him do his acrobatics. This is my job, still. 

 

\--

 

I'm not disappointed by the song, or Jim's moves. He leaves the stage with that same look, black glitter splattered across his chest, leather trousers low on his hips as he breathes hard, receiving the customary congratulations and slaps on the back. The entourage go to converge, but I get there first tonight, and he flashes me a simpering grin, leaning up to press his lips to my neck, much to my chagrin and the bemusement of his surrounding crew. He's getting too comfortable, I think grimly as I rub at my neck, walking him back to the dressing room. My skin feels as if it's on fire, and I swear, he's doing it just to piss me off. Of course he is. Cocky shit.

 

"Jim!"  
I hear Rocky call him, and we both look round, watching him drag a wide-eyed girl through the throngs of people in the hallway, towards Magpie's room. I'm frowning. I don't like the look of this. The girl is wearing a black t shirt, covered with a design of Jim's face, 'Magpie' emblazoned across the chest. Her hands are shaking, and she can't walk in the high heels that she's wearing, but Rocky pushes her towards us nonetheless.  
"Her name's Lorna."  
"Actually it's-"

"Hello, Lorna." Jim purrs, and slips an arm around her shoulders, that same wild, predatory look in his eyes from the bar yesterday. I'm frowning, and my hand is tight on the dressing room door, refusing to open it for the pair of them. The girl is fucking googly eyed for Jim, but she can't be older than seventeen. Jesus, I think she's still got braces on her teeth. Rocky disappears again, giving me a look on the way. I don't return his gaze. I won't just settle for this shit. 

"No." I say flatly, and Lorna's face falls, and Jim blinks up at me, shocked for a moment, and then positively murderous. His hand twitches, and I give my best imitation of his sweet smile, imagining his words floating through the air between us. _I do whatever I want._

"Sebastian," He says, in a calm drawl that doesn't convince me in the slightest. His pupils are blown, his fingers twitching, and he's so high from the show that he's ready to fuck and kill this girl in the arena's own fucking dressing room. She's holding a copy of his CD, for God's sake. Her fingernails have fucking.. loveheart stickers on them. Jesus.

 "..Let us pass. Now."

"No." I say again, and Jim bites down on his bottom lip, still smiling, though I can see the plans going through his mind, the desperacy working it's way through his body, the need pulsing through his veins. The hall is still crowded, but nobody pays us much attention, and Jim's eyes are wild, his teeth gritted as he stares at me. I smile again, and he turns to 'Lorna'. 

"Baby. Could you excuse us for a moment, please? Go find us some drinks, yeah?" His words are a soft croon, but as soon as she totters off in those fucking ridiculous shoes, he's forcing me backwards through the door and slamming it behind us, stronger than he looks. Makes my shoulder ache, the shit. Probably the adrenaline. His mouth is a grimace, and I haven't yet seen him this out of control. Even last night, swiping the knife across the girl's throat. Or fucking her. He wants what he can't have, is his problem. And he gets it. He always gets what he wants.

"You'd better be planning on taking me out to find what I need." He says coolly, hands curling into fists at his sides as he stares me down, every muscle in his body tense. 

"I won't take you out to kill some.. kid, Jim." I reply simply, arms folded across my chest. "She's a kid too." I jab a thumb at the door. "Over my dead fucking body."

He's still for a long moment, and then the words are uttered so quietly  that I barely hear them, his eyes fixed hungrily on me.  "..You asked for it."

 

He throws himself at me, his eyes wild, and his strength is worth nothing, not when he's going on instinct and adrenaline. I wasn't expecting it, but I react fast, and catch him around the middle. I slam him back down onto the floor, though I catch his head, not willing to fucking break him. He's got his knife in his hand, but I have his wrist firmly in my fingers, and he glares at me, his teeth locked together, muscles trembling with the effort of trying to sink it into my skin. Fairly effortlessly, I pin it above his head, and get the other wrist there too, sitting on his legs to keep him down.

"How'd you like it?" I growl, "Having your power taken away from you? Hm? Trusting someone and having them fucking turn on you, Jim? Magpie?"

 "I'll kill you." He spits back venomously, before taking a moment to breathe, to relax, to compose his face. He opens his eyes, and they're not as charcoal black as I first thought, though right now they're full of hatred for me. He speaks slowly, more quietly now, but his words drip scathingly.

"You think you can stop me. You can't. You just can't. I need this. And I'll do it tonight. Tomorrow. I'll do it whenever I want, because-"

"Yeah, yeah, 'I do what I want', yeah, got it. No. No, you fucking won't. I'm coming on tour with you. You invited me, remember?" I smile at him, showing my teeth. "And so did Rocky, actually. So no.." I give a mock pout. "I'm afraid you won't be doing that again."

Something akin to fear flickers behind his eyes for a moment, and he relaxes in my hold. The light behind his eyes begins to wane slightly, and he gives a slight huff of laughter, the sound bitter. He looks away. 

"Then I'll kill myself." He says simply, and I shake my head. Attention seeking. Pity. He won't get fucking pity from me, not when he's been killing little girls.

"I mean it." He says, and he isn't looking at me. He's gazing at the wall, his wrists still pinned above his head. "I can't come down. My heart.. my.. I.. Drugs don't even.." He's struggling with his words, and gone is the cocky, sauntering rockstar of a few hours ago. I can't help it. I feel sorry for him. ..Motherfucker. His cheeks are pink, and I can feel his pulse raging in his wrists, the adrenaline still coursing through him. It's no wonder they all die young, I think.

I sigh resignedly. 

"Maybe we can find another way." I offer, and he turns to grimace at me, his words calm again. Morose. Accepting of his fate.

 

"There is no other way."

 

"We'll find one. But I'm sending Lorna home. She's a fucking child, Jim."

He shrugs in my grasp. "..Had younger."  

I grimace, and release him, and he stays where he is on the floor as I stand, walking to the door. Lorna waits outside, holding a pitcher of something that she's most definitely not old enough to drink. 

"Go home." I say firmly, and her face falls. "I'm doing you a favour." I add gruffly, and shut the door again. 

 

\--

 

Before I can even turn around, he's on me. I should have expected it really, but the little fucker was staring into space, his eyes all morose and hopeless, and he'd stayed there whilst I spoke to the girl. Maybe it was my ears ringing from the show, or maybe it was his flexible stealthiness, but he's pushing me against the closed door, my cheek against the wood - and a knife held against my throat. I'm already bleeding, his hand pressing just a little too hard to be just a threat, and I'm uttering a pissed off "Careful," not wanting to die by fucking accident. He laughs, and the sound is quiet, breathless and exultant.

"Fine." I spit. "Go. Fuck off out the window again, and I'll chase you down. I'll follow you around the fucking country, keeping you from doing this. Count on that."

"No.." He breathes, and there's a shake in his soft lilt, and it might be anger, going from his gritted teeth. "Oh, no, no, no, my darling."

I raise an eyebrow, and he presses himself against me, rolling leather clad hips against me with the same expert motion that I've tutted at onstage. The knife slips even harder against my neck, and more blood trickles from a shallow cut as I hold my breath, waiting to hear what the fucker means and not daring to ask. I'm not in the right position to grab the blade back, and it infuriates me. He continues after a moment, hand slipping down to cup my arse with a firm hand that makes me frown, tensing, eyes swivelling back to try and look at him. He wouldn't dare.

 

"You took away my pet." He drawls softly into my ear. "My release. And so, my love. You'll take her place."

 

\--

\--

 


	6. Salt and Leather

Well, that doesn't sound particularly fucking promising. 

 

Fairly sure that I've just ensured my own death, I try and lean away from that damn knife, still digging painfully into the skin of my neck. "Can't we talk about this?" I try, my voice half joking as I try and think of the best way to lurch back from the damned blade. I can hear him breathing at the nape of my neck, his breaths ragged and fueled by his adrenaline, and I'm truly in the fucking shit, here. 

"I don't do talking, sweetheart." comes the reply, and he's so desperately trying to keep his voice calm, but I can hear the slight hitches, the telltale signs of a man on the edge.   
"You just gonna kill me?" I ask, my words gruff as I try to reason with him. "Break your pattern? What, I'm not good enough for you to fuck?"

He laughs, and presses the knife harder against me, and I swear loudly, blood trickling over the blade's edge, warm as it dribbles down my collar. "You're plenty good enough." He drawls, that slight edge still in his voice, and pushes his crotch against my back, the leather of his trousers already tenting. I'm not sure if I should be flattered, or if that's just a fucking consequence of the show. He continues, words a growl by my ear. "But I'm not stupid. You'll run. Or fight me."

"Oh yeah." I spit back, "I forgot you like little girls. Like the ones that can't fight back, don't you?"

He goes quiet for a moment, and I grin, before there's a hand in my hair, and he pulls back my head, slamming it hard into the door. I groan a curse, tasting blood from biting down on my lip, and I'm seeing stars for a moment. I don't register that the knife has gone from my neck until it returns, the blade pressing against my skin harder. My hands are suddenly behind my back, bound with.. is that.. a belt?

"It's good leather.." Jim purrs by my ear, and my heart plummets into my stomach for a moment, soon replaced by a wild fury. No. No, this isn't fucking happening. I kick out at him, lurching away from the knife and sending my shoulder into his chest, my teeth gritted as I knock him out of my way. I'm tugging at the belt, but it holds fast, and I don't want to know how he did it so quickly. It's a learned fucking talent, that. I eye the door, heading back towards it even as I realise that I won't be able to open it without my fucking hands, and then Jim is there again, strong hands tugging my feet out from beneath me, and sending me sprawling face down into a plush rug.

 

"Oh, darling, you got blood on my rug." He remarks lazily, though there's an excited edge to his voice, and he tugs me round roughly onto my back. I repress the urge to spit the blood in my mouth at him, and swallow it back, glaring up at him.

"I don't know where you think this is going to go." I growl, grimacing at him, and he rolls his head on his shoulders, straightening as he stretches his arms, still coated with black glitter. "There's only so much you can do with me like this."

Jim's on his feet, sauntering around me as I force myself to sit up, hands still bound behind me. I can see every inch of his body through his leather trousers, and as I thought, of course he's already hard. Against my better judgement, so am I. He's not going to fucking find that out any time soon.

 

He sighs rather happily, and bends down in front of me, not even wavering as he drops to his haunches, and I'm instantly reminded of his flexibility on stage. Wish I hadn't fucking thought about that.

"Here's what's going to happen." He says slowly, blinking at me with wide, innocent eyes - but I know them fucking better, now. He runs his hands along his leather clad thighs, and tilts his head at me with a smile. "You're going to suck me off."

There's a beat of shocked silence, and then incredulously, I laugh aloud, and grin at him, defiance written across my features. "Not a fucking chance in hell." I drawl back rather proudly, meeting his gaze with an amused glare of my own, still sucking the blood from my lower lip.

"Oh, love." He murmurs pityingly, and leans in, dragging a thumb across my mouth. "You're going to suck me off. Because if you don't, I'm going to leave you here and hop straight out of that window." He pets me on the head, and I scowl, the amusement dying on my face, and hate burning in my chest as the realisation hits me, along with the arousal that I'd rather not fucking be there at the moment.

"And her blood will be on your hands, my darling."

 

\--

 

When I was fourteen, we had a house fire. I lived with just my mum, and my dad had long gone, fuck knows where. We still don't know. She tried her hardest, but she didn't cope well, and the fags and alcohol were her best vice. That one night, she just happened to fall asleep on the sofa, with a fag burning in the ashtray on the side. Ash end became too heavy, and fell backwards instead of into the tray. Landed on the carpet, as fucking luck would have it, into a patch, damp with spilled vodka.

 

I could smell the smoke from the bedroom a few seconds before the fire alarm went off, the loud bleeps sending me rocketing out of bed, running downstairs and into the living room, thick with smoke and flames licking up the sides of my mum's best cabinets. She was unconscious, and I was in my pajamas, dancing barefoot in the doorway, whimpering like a scared kid. Fuck, I  _was_ a scared kid. But I did what I had to do. I threw myself into that room, and I fucking dragged her out with me, right onto the grass. I left her with the neighbours and I went back in for the dog - her dog, fucking prissy 'Tess', who'd only eat damned canned tuna, and not dog food, or biscuits. I went back for her, and then I went back again, for her books. My mum's precious books, ten a penny from any bookshop now, but they were important to her. I managed to get three books, and her coat, before the neighbours tore me from the house and wouldn't let me back in. My own things were never important. My school books burnt to ash, and so did my toys. I was wearing charity shop clothes for about a year after, too. 

 

But I'd never thought about any of that. I'd just thought about my mum, and her things, and how.. fucking upset she'd be if her prissy dog died, or if one of her books got burnt. Or if she didn't have the coat that she'd wasted a month of wages on. 

 

In a way, I think, as Jim unbuttons his leather trousers, dragging down the zip and pulling himself out, I'm a good person. I'd throw myself into the damn fire for any one of The Magpie's damn victims, just like I would for my own mother, or those fucking  books. 

 

S'the reason I enlisted, as well. Not afraid to do the right thing. Even if, at the fucking moment, this is the right thing. I sigh, and Jim smiles, showing his teeth as he strokes himself, his eyes wild as he edges closer to me. Seems fucking strange that I'm saving a life right now. 

"What the hell are you thinking about?" He asks me with a quietly amused drawl, and I shake my head. It's not important. I meet his gaze firmly and part my lips, tilting my chin just slightly. I have to resist the urge to smirk as he takes a breath, and edges closer, the knife still in his hand as he brings the blade lightly to my neck. Just making sure, I bet. He presses himself against my mouth, and I dart out my tongue, playing with him. He blinks, and I'm not sure he was expecting that. Well, I might as well have some fun, if I'm here. I tilt my head and lave my tongue over him, and he's watching me with those reptilian eyes, the heat still behind them. He tastes of salt and leather.

"Get on with it." He murmurs, but I'm not entirely sure he wants me to. He's watching me with intrigue, the knife pressed just a little too closely to my skin to ignore the order - though I grimace internally at the thought of it as an order. I part my lips a little further, and take him in, inch by inch, and a stuttered sound escapes his lips, the noise making the corner of my mouth twitch around him. The belt digging into my wrists, I lean forwards to take him to the hilt, purposely slowly, and hollow my cheeks as I pull back, the knife clattering to the floor as Jim twines his fingers into my hair. I smile at that, and he tugs hard on my hair, obviously sensing the action. He rocks his hips against my mouth, and I scowl, gagging before I can recover my composure. Slowly, I begin to suck, bobbing my head and laving my tongue around him, hollowing my cheeks as I draw back. He should think himself fucking lucky. He's getting the full treatment, here, and he didn't even have to buy me dinner. His moan is shuddering and pitiful, and it sends a spike of heat low into my stomach. I find myself doubling my efforts and falling into a languorous pace, and his fingers twine harder into my hair, a low gasp leaving him on each thrust into my mouth. Who's the cocky little shit now? I think, before reminding myself that I'm still bound at the wrists, and that he tends to fucking slit his lovers' throats when he's done with them.

 

The thought makes me slow my rhythm, but Jim is having none of it. His hands in my hair, he begins to thrust in earnest, and I close my eyes, opening my mouth for him, not enjoying the actual sensation as much as the sounds that he makes; ragged sighs that sound a little like the ones that he makes on stage. It takes him about thirty seconds like this, and then he's coming hard, groaning something that sounds like a garbled version of my name. He's emptying himself down my throat and clawing at me, keeping me in place as he does so. I swallow dutifully, and he keeps me there for a few long moments, just rocking weakly against my lips, as if making sure. I'm breathless as he moves back at last, turning around to tuck himself away, and I try and move back, to bend down and somehow grab the knife with my bound hands - but he sees me. 

 

He swipes the blade from just out of my reach, and turns it between his fingers, leaning in to take my chin firmly in his hand, though his eyes don't look as crazed up close. I don't want to kid myself that my skills and our fight have satisfied him, though. Not when he's holding the knife to my neck, gazing at my mouth like I might argue with him.

 

"Just do it." I hiss after a moment, and he drops the blade down, rucking up my t shirt. I tense, and grit my teeth as a jagged pain slices across my chest, feeling the blood beginning to trickle, and the wound throb. But it's a surface wound. Not deep. I frown at him as he backs up, smiling at whatever his handiwork is, but I feel a slight flicker of something at the lazy look on his face - no longer the wild eyed high. And fuck, it's worth the taste in my mouth, and the wet burn of my chest. I've saved a life.

 

"You're free to go." He drawls, and I get to my feet with a half stagger, hands still bound behind my back. With an amused sigh, he follows me over to the door, knife in his hand as he unwraps the belt from my wrists, not at all hesitant as he leans in the doorway to look at me. I stand, rubbing my wrists, and eyeing him with a kind of dark interest. I don't feel embarrassed about what just happened. He might have come in my mouth, but I got to see him undone. Crying out my name. And it was somehow enough for him.

"I'll see you on the tour bus tomorrow, then." He drawls, and I nod, clearing my throat.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think you will."

He nods at me, with a smirk that tells me just how superior he thinks he is. Raising an eyebrow, I run a thumb over my bottom lip, catching the slight wetness there and then sucking it off slowly, not dropping his eye contact throughout. 

 

He swallows. I smirk, and turn, walking back down the hall. The dressing room door slams, and I laugh to myself.

 

I've saved a fucking life.

\--


	7. Song to Sing

I wake up wearing last night's clothes, to the alarm that I'd set before passing out the night before. The bus to Sheffield leaves the arena at 11am, and I already know that I'm damn going to be on it. If Rocky's happy with having me on the pay roll, and I can stop more fucking murders, then I don't see a problem. Of course, I'll have to think of a new way to stop him. As.. enlightening as it was to let him fuck my mouth, I don't appreciate having a knife forced to my throat, or acting as his fucking.. tag-a-long whore. I felt smug about seeing behind that Magpie mask last night, but this morning there's a rather bitter taste in my mouth. No pun intended.

 

I pad into the bathroom and swear at the sight of myself in the mirror. There's a cut on my lip, and one patch of my black t shirt is darker than the rest. I suddenly remember him taking the knife to my chest, and grimace, reaching up slowly to peel the fabric away from the bloodied skin with a litany of harsh curses. It's stuck fast, and pulling it away opens the wound up again. I grit my teeth at the sight of the cuts, to the left of my chest, above my nipple. Motherfucker. It's an 'M', jaggedly carved, with a flourish on the end of one line. Of course, it's going to scar. I've been fucking branded. 

 

I swipe everything from the bathroom counter in one angry move, my fists clenched as I gaze furiously at the letter, trying to remind myself that I saved a life. That this one stupid fucking letter on my skin symbolises some girl out there, going back to her family. Staying happy, staying fucking alive. Selfishly, it doesn't seem enough.

 

I eat breakfast and drink my coffee black, tossing out the milk. I don't know how long I'm going to be gone. For all I know, he could get bored of me after Sheffield. Or maybe he'll want me for the whole tour. The only thing I know for sure is that I'm hooked on it all - hooked on being a hero, and saving more girls from his wrath. Hooked on something else that I don't quite want to come to terms with yet, but it has a lot to do with him writhing around the stage in those leather trousers. Jesus Christ, I'm no better than a fourteen year old girl.

 

I pack enough to last me a few weeks - and add my gun, buried beneath the clothes - before I leave, locking the door behind me. No one to tell that I'm going anywhere. No plants to water. I'm a free man, and if that isn't the saddest thing in the world at 30. I'm running away with a rockstar. I laugh at myself, and it's a bitter sound, the smile freezing on my face as I catch sight of myself in the mirror of the lift. I'm not wearing my blacks yet, not working until we get to Sheffield I assume, and the 'M' scratched onto my chest is just about visible through the white t shirt. I grit my teeth, and turn away from my reflection, shrugging the leather jacket a little further over the damned thing.

 

\--

 

When I arrive outside the arena, the crew are still packing half the set into two lorries, a plush coach with blacked out windows parked in between them both. It's huge, and I can't even damn get to it. Screaming teenage girls line the street, held back by flimsy barriers and a few security guards that look bored as fuck. I push my way through with my bag and give the guy that stops me a pointed look.  
"Do I really look like I want him to sign my tits?" I say gruffly, and he reluctantly lets me pass. I'm shaking my head as I reach the door, opened by Rocky with a grin. I return it with a nod, though he still makes me feel fucking uneasy. It's that calm certainty, even in the face of his star's murders. It's unsettling. He slaps me on the back and brings me inside, and I was right - the place is fucking huge, hardly even looks like a coach, inside. It's like a long corridor, lined with plush carpet and two huge, semi circle sofas around two tables. A woman sits at one of the tables, her hair a dark, dyed red and piled high on her head, thick black eyeliner around her eyes as she chews gum and deals a pack of cards. Rocky closes the door behind me and she looks up, giving a nod of acknowledgement.  
"Ange." Rocky introduces. "Jim's agent. This is Seb. New security crew."   
She smiles at me for a moment, and then cocks her head for Rocky to return to their card game.   
"Nice to meet you." I say, and look around, trying to figure out how this place fucking works. Rocky picks up his cards, and fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette, placing it between his lips, and finally Ange answers my unspoken question.  
"Still in bed. Doesn't get up before noon. Bunks are upstairs."

Upstairs? I think, a little alarmedly, but I look to my right and sure enough see a short, winding set of stairs. It's less an 'upstairs' than an exposed loft area, and I toss my bag up there before climbing up, not able to straighten. I have to crawl towards the bunks, set into the side of the coach against blacked out windows, and sure enough, one bunk is drawn across with a black curtain. I pick the one opposite and set my bag down on it, surprisingly roomy. Still, this is going to be a fucking pain to get used to. Just to be irritating, I pull back the black curtain, kneeling, and resist the urge to laugh at the murderous, spoilt brat of a rock star.

 

He lays, half curled into a ball on his side, a hand by his face and his hair mussed over his forehead. For once, he's not covered in black glitter, or wearing leather trousers, and has a blanket wrapped around his waist with his bare legs hanging out of the end. He's fast asleep, and I sit like that for a while, amused to see him so still. He's bathed in a faint light from the window, blacked from the outside, and it takes me a minute to spot the blade resting by his feet, a slight irritation running through me at the thought of my branded chest. I take it in my fingers, and sit cross-legged, examining it with interest. Must be his favourite. I wonder how many people it's killed.

 

"You're back for more."   
The slow drawl makes my eyes flick to him, and he's awake and watching me, moving to prop his cheek on one hand. I don't miss the subtle movement of his blanket, dragged to cover more of him, and I'm incredulous for a moment. I've had his cock in my mouth, and he's embarrassed about baring his damn skin? He bares enough of it onstage.

"You know," I say, my words half threatening and half amused as I turn out his blade. His eyes swivel to it, and he raises an eyebrow. "I should mark you in return. With your own knife. You deserve it. And I'd like to see you try and push me off." I reach up, dragging down the collar of my t shirt to expose the 'M', and he smiles rather sleepily, reaching over to run his fingers along the skin. I catch them hard in my grasp, and give him a firm look.

"It's not funny. If my hands hadn't been bound, I'd have paid you back in kind."

"You weren't complaining last night." He says, and pulls his hand free, laying back down and ghosting his tongue over his bottom lip. I don't need to be a fucking genius to know what he's making a reference to. I grimace, my cheeks hot, and look away, and he laughs, the sound lazy and breathless. It's mad, how different he seems today. Not pacing, buzzing before the show. Not bouncing off the walls, murderous and lusting, afterwards.

"I saved a life." I say flatly. "I'm not ashamed of what I did. Not sure the belt was necessary, though. Or this." I tug roughly at my shirt again, still pissed off that it's there. 

"Saved a life." He smiles, and closes his eyes, and there's a hint of that smugness there. He stretches out his legs, and folds his arms beneath his head, seemingly not caring that I'm still holding this blade. Apparently he doesn't seem to think I'll use it. The fucker's right, of course. Can't mar the looks of the star of the show. I turn it between my fingers, an old habit, and he opens one eye, continuing amusedly. "Is that why you're here? To save more lives?"

I shrug, as if none of it matters. Downstairs, Ange is on the phone, her voice loud and authoritative with a cockney twang. The Magpie smiles again, and the grin is fucking hateful.  
"It is, isn't it?" He muses, obviously entertained by the prospect. He's looking at me now, tongue pressing to his teeth for a moment before he says it, the words a low drawl. "And here I was, thinking you just liked the taste of me."

My fingers tighten on the blade, and I've opened my mind to curse at him, to say something fucking scathing - when Ange yells up to him. 

"Jim. Change o' plans. We're doing Graham Norton, the pre-record. Filming is in an hour, then we'll get on the road."

Every bit of smugness drops from his expression as I watch, and he sits bolt upright, the blanket falling down to his hips.   
"No, Ange." He calls back, "I hate that fucking show."

"No choice, pet. It's promo. Get dressed. We'll park up outside the studios."

He grimaces, and throws himself back down onto his back, turning to snap at me.   
"Why are you still here? Fuck off. Make yourself useful and get me some coffee. And my clothes." He curls onto his side, and I blink, a slight incredulous anger filling my chest. That's not how this is going to work. And he needs to learn that as soon as possible. A little revenge wouldn't go amiss either.

 

I act fast.

Leaning down, I tear the blanket away from him, exposing a bare arse that's as milky pale as the rest of him, though he immediately jolts, trying to snatch back his cover. I'm sitting over him, on the backs of his legs, a hand in his hair as I force his face into the pillow, a muffled squeal leaving him as I scratch the 'S' into the skin of his arse with his own blade. I don't let him go until he's stopped making noises, and he turns onto his cheek on the pillow, looking back at me with a venom that I'm not quite sure I deserve.

 

"Just returning the favour." I muse, and climb off him, folding the knife away. He scrabbles for his blankets, and is breathing hard, watching me with a kind of shock and anger that I was hoping I'd get. He's underestimated me, and he sees that. I smile, and he scowls, still clutching at the blanket. The cut was shallow - probably won't even scar, unlike mine.

"You'll pay for that." He growls, and I shrug, straightening my t shirt and making to go back downstairs.

"I'm counting on it." I quip back. "Maybe it's enough incentive not to go after another little girl."

 

I haven't seen him look this livid since I denied him access to 'Lorna', though his cheeks are pink, and after a moment, he turns to press his face into the pillows. I toss back his knife. He won't tell his agent, or Rocky, I'm sure of it. 

"Get dressed." I call, halfway down the stairs with a smirk. "You've got a song to sing, Magpie."

 

\--

 

I sit with Ange for a while, and she's actually alright - though I guess right away that she doesn't know a thing about the murders. Rocky gives me a look, and I nod, and it's all I need to keep my mouth shut. From the way she talks about post-show, it sounds as though she knows something is going on, but doesn't want to be held liable. That's fucking fair, I suppose. Both Rocky and I could be held liable now, I realise with a frown. Rocky steps outside to tell the set lorries to head to Sheffield, and when he returns, the coach starts to move, heading across London to the studios.

 

Magpie appears down the stairs, dressed in leather trousers and a long, loose t shirt, eyeing me with malice. I give him a simpering smile, and he turns to Ange, sitting down with a half wince - I don't miss that - and beginning to speak to her, his voice crisp and irritated.  
"I don't want to be interviewed."  
"Yea', I know. I told him just the song. He'll fob it off, say you're on tour and then promo you. That's it."  
"So I won't have to sit on the sofa and speak to a bunch of nobodies?"  
"Exactly."

Cocky git, I think, and roll my eyes, Rocky grinning as he turns away to look at the window. We're pulling up at the studio, and it must have gotten out that Magpie's performing, because a gaggle of teenage girls lines the path to the studio doors, clutching his CDs and wearing his t shirts. I glance over at Jim, and he's looking through the blacked out windows at them with a mixture of resignation and loathing.

"What's wrong?" I ask, "Fans a.. pain in the ass?"

He fixes me with a dark look, and I can practically see the murderous thoughts in his mind, though I can see now that he wouldn't act on them when not in a post-show high. I grin, and continue, Ange and Rocky already up and out of the coach, trying to secure a way to the door. The screaming flits back to us through the opening and closing of the door.

 

"I know what you mean." I add. "Something about that many teenage girls. Just doesn't.. sit right.. does it?"

"Kindly go and fuck yourself." Jim says crisply, though his cheeks are pink, and he stands, ready to follow them out. I laugh, pursing my lips and making to follow, trying to force myself into a bodyguard frame of mind. We wait by the door for a minute.

"You're different when you're not performing." I note, enjoying having the upper hand for a while. "You haven't tried to kiss me once today."

"Maybe I know where your mouth has been." He quips back dryly, and my mouth drops open, an amused 'O'. I see the shadow of a smirk on his face, and then Rocky is dragging us out, the screaming reaching a cacophony.

"Magpie! Magpie!!! Over here! James! Magpie, please! James- J- Magpie!"

I hold my arms out, pushing them back if they get too close, shielding him from hands thrusting CD's at him, even if I get jabbed in the process. The paparazzi are here too, snapping and flashing and screaming questions about the tour. I glance back at him, and he's slipping on a pair of dark sunglasses, smiling graciously and giving a small wave. We herd him inside and I shut the door, breathing out a quiet "..fucking hell," and Rocky pats me on the back. 

"You'll get used to it." He says, and I nod, the four of us following the BBC girl up to Jim's dressing room. Ange hangs up a plastic wrapped t shirt on a coat hanger, and Rocky settles into a chair in the corner, tapping away on his phone.  Ange disappears to finalise the plans, and Jim is pulling off his own t shirt, throwing it at me. I roll my eyes, and hang it up on the rail, helping myself to a few of the complimentary snacks in his dressing room. The TV is on, and they're showing the pre-record, Graham already chatting to his guests, two actresses and a comedian that my mum used to like.  Jim tugs on the new t shirt, a long black affair with studs and rips, and musses his hair in the mirror. 

"Where's Ange?" He demands, and Rocky just jabs a thumb at the door, Jim scowling as he takes an eyeliner pencil from her bag. An oversight of the studio, there's no mirror in here, and he forces it into my hand. "Do it. I can't go on without it."

I frown, stepping back. "I've never-"

"Rocky's club fisted. Just do it, for fuck sake."

I roll my eyes, and lean in, taking his chin in my hand like he did to me last night. He doesn't seem to miss the comparison, and swallows, adam's apple brushing against my wrist. I apply the make-up carefully beneath his eyes and beneath the eyelashes on the top, no clue if I'm doing it fucking right. I'm not a make up artist.

Ange bursts through the door, and she's beckoning us out. "You're on." She calls briskly, and Jim nods, pushing his sunglasses at my chest and running his hands through his hair, before sauntering out, that same rockstar swagger finding its way back into his walk.

 

I can't help it - I grin as I watch him fall into character, and as soon as he's gone, turn to watch him make his entrance on the TV.

 

 

\--

 

 

 

 


	8. Boys on Tour

That mask falls over Jim's face as he appears on screen, all twinkling brown eyes and a smile that just hints at the gracious smugness that he presents to the world. Most of the audience clap politely, but some scream and stamp their feet, Graham Norton making a quip and Jim laughing, bowing before he begins. He circles the middle of the microphone with his hands, leaning to the side to pull it to his lips, and I recognise the song, much to my surprise. It's chaste - about love, and some kind of metaphor about death - not the one about fucking in a car, which is my favourite. His voice is rough and breathy, exuding sex, and I'm watching the television fucking transfixed, as though I'm standing beside the stage again. He really does have a talent, and for a moment, I can kind of understand why Rocky lets him do what he does. To keep him. Even if I can't justify it myself. 

The audience are on their feet when he finishes, stamping and screaming, and Jim smiles, running his hands through his hair and stepping back with a coy wink before he saunters from the set. Graham pretends to fan himself, and then spits the promotional fluff about the tour, proceeding to discuss Jim's countrywide venture for a few moments, before turning back to his guests, one of the actresses joking that she'll follow him into his dressing room. I wonder what they'd say - what any of them would say, if they knew the cost of keeping him alive. I look over as the door opens, and he's back, Ange talking on the phone again as he sips at a bottle of water.

"Not bad, feathers." I muse, folding my arms across my chest, and he rolls his eyes, walking past me to pull off the studded t shirt. I catch it as he throws it at me, the action seeming to become my showpiece, and hand him the loose, grey t shirt that he was wearing before. He pulls it on, and I wrap my fingers around his arm, pulling him to face me and scanning his expression. His eyes are smug, glittering slightly but not excited. Not the buzzing madness that usually envelopes him after a show, and he gives me a simpering grimace.

"Just big shows." He arches an eyebrow at me, pointedly skimming his gaze down my body. "Don't get your hopes up." I snort and release him as he tugs his arm away and Ange holds the door open, already ordering us back to the coach. Rocky takes the clothes, and the dressing room basket that the BBC team have left, helping himself to a wrapped muffin. 

The pair hurry back to the coach before us, clearing the way, but the screams of the crowd go up again at the sight of Jim, and I wonder how he fucking bears this every day. The sunglasses go on, and so does his smile, sauntering his way through the girls that push and claw at me to try and get to him. He pauses to do a few signings, to lean into a couple of photographs, and I swear, he's doing it to piss me off. I wait patiently for a few minutes, being battered and deafened by screaming fans. At long last, I give him a discreet pat on the arse, right over where I've marked my initial, and his gracious smile turns into a murderous glare. It works, though. He stamps his feet on the climb into the coach, and eager hands bang on the exterior as I lock us inside again, breathing through another long curse.

 

\--

 

Jim goes straight back to his bed, and I hang back with Rocky and Ange for a while as the drive gets underway, playing a few games of cards. They're both pretty good, but poker was practically my career in the forces, and after a while I'm laughing, clearing the table of twenty five quid and a half pack of Marlboro Lights. We talk for a while, but neither are that chatty, Rocky texting and Ange continually taking calls about Magpie. I help myself to one of the sandwiches Ange has laid out from a giant black box in the corner, a late lunch, and soon I've polished off three or four in a row. It's hard work, this. I walk through, introduce myself to the driver Steve, and manage to keep him busy talking about the places he's travelled for a while. Finally, I can't put it off any longer, and head up the glorified ladder, crouching down to crawl towards my bunk.

 

Jim watches me as I approach, black curtain only half pulled across, his gaze lazy as he lays on his stomach and folds toned arms beneath his chin. The leather trousers are screwed up on the edge of his bed, and he's wearing three-quarter length, grey jogging bottoms, feet kicked up behind him. He looks more normal than I've seen him so far, and I have to force myself to remember that he's a cocky, smug little shit. A rockstar. And a murderer. Key point.

 

"You gonna threaten to kill me again?" I muse, sitting back to lean against my mattress, feet touching the edge of his bed. I rest my forearms on my bent knees, and watch him, and he shakes his head.

"I don't need to threaten." He says at long last, before flicking his eyes to me, voice surprisingly calm. I've never seen him look less of a rockstar. "If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead."

"I don't know about that." I shrug, shadow of a smile on my lips. "Think you underestimated me." I eye his arse fairly pointedly, and his eyes narrow infinitesimally, muscles in his back tensing for a moment. He breathes out a long exhale, and then arches an eyebrow, slowly repeating the same soft, threatening words.

"If I  _wanted_  to kill you, you'd be dead."

"So you don't want to kill me, then."

"You're much more fun to play with." He quips back, and closes his eyes, long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. He's still wearing the eyeliner I put on him.

I think for a moment, and reach over to take the blade in my hands, the thing still resting on his bed. He purses his lips at the sound of me moving, but doesn't open his eyes. "That what you're doing, then?" I ask. "..'Playing' with me? I saved that girl's life."

"How very heroic of you." He drawls lazily, keeping his eyes closed, drawing a pattern on his mattress with his fingers. 

"And I'll keep saving lives." I add, leaning back, and running my thumb over the blade. "Whatever that means."

A smile quirks on his lips, and he stretches his arms up for a moment, turning onto his back.   
"It means you want to keep sucking me off." He muses, and I roll my eyes. He continues, his amused words fractured by a half yawn. "Honey, if you're that eager, just go ahead.."

  
My cheeks are on fire, and my fingers tighten on the knife as he gestures at his crotch, the skinny, muscled lines of his torso disappearing into the jogging bottoms. I keep it together somehow, my words calm. "You're a cocky little fucker for a man who gets his kicks murdering little girls."

"Little girls." He scoffs, and rolls his eyes. "They're old enough to know what they want. And perhaps I'm utterly _crippled_  with guilt."

I arch an eyebrow, my words flat. "Are you?"

"Not really." 

Silence falls between us, and he opens one eye, arms crossed beneath his head as he looks at me. "Why are you here? Don't you have a family? A real job?" He says the words as if he can't imagine anything worse, and I shake my head, leaning back against my own mattress. It's absolutely boiling up here, which explains his state of undress, but there's no fucking chance that I'm taking off my shirt, parading around that branded 'M' for all to see.

 

"Was in the army. No family in England."

"How.. boring.."

"Oh, I'm sorry. My life not fucking interesting enough for you?" My words are more amused than angry, and I roll my eyes, flicking out his knife and then folding it away. "I guess you've been grinding on stage since you were old enough to walk?"

He glances at me with a half smirk. "You've been watching again."

 

 I return the smirk sarcastically, and his own widens before he continues. "Since I was seventeen."

I look down at the knife, trying to imagine how many deaths that meant. He scoffs, and reaches over to bat it from my hand. It skitters across the floor, and I catch his wrist. He rolls his eyes and tries to pull it back, but I want the answer to that silent question. How many? He turns where he's sitting, and extends a leg between my bent knees, pressing his toes against my chest and pushing back, trying to release his wrist still. Flexible git. I don't move, amused by the attempt.

"Relax," He drawls and tuts. "I've only been doing  _that_  for the past year or so. And I've only been on tour for six months."

I frown, and close my free hand around the ankle of the foot at my chest, enjoying his exasperated glance.  
"So what the hell did you do before that? To cope?" I ask, and he tips his head back a little, fixing me with a sickly sweet gaze as he parts his lips. He begins to sing, and the words are quiet, almost a growl, except they're his specialty of breathy, sensual sounds, to a tune that I recognise. It's not one of his songs, I know that much, and he's slowed it down, a teasing, drawling little melody.

_"Because the drugs never work,_   
_They're gonna give you a smirk,_   
_Cause they've got methods of keeping you clean.."_

My mouth has gone dry at the sound of his voice, pure sex, and rather subconsciously, I tug him by the wrist and ankle into my lap as he continues, a smirk appearing in his low tune. Warmth floods into my stomach.

  _"They're gonna rip up your heads  
_ _Your aspirations to shreds  
_ _Another cog in the - murder - machine.."_

He taps the end of my nose at the last two words, and winks, before rolling out of my lap, and laying on his stomach to watch me, and I'm still looking at him, fairly transfixed. After a moment, he laughs, and the sound is incredulous. He leans in and clicks once, in front of my eyes, and I swallow, blinking myself out of my trance. Back in the room. Fucking hell. I'm a fourteen year old girl. I might as well be wearing his t shirt and thrusting CDs at him. No wonder Rocky gives in to him so easily.

 

I clear my throat, about to conclude then, that he meant he survived the high on sex, drugs and alcohol - the usual, and not mention that his  _voice_  and tugging him into my lap has sent me fucking haywire. My cheeks are hot, and he's looking at me like those eyes can see through me. They probably fucking can.

 But a shout comes from the lower deck, Rocky tossing up Jim's sunglasses onto the upper level.

 "We're here. You ready to go, boys?"

 

\--


	9. Wait For It

It's been about an hour since I last saw Jim on the coach, and I've still got that fucking song in my head, all slow and soft in his singing voice. After helping get him past the screaming fans and into the Sheffield arena, he's been on the stage doing a sound check, while I've been drafted in to help the set guys unpack the two lorries, and get his clothes into his dressing room. There's only a couple of hours until the show, and at last, I'm given a reprieve. Rocky thanks me, handing over more sandwiches from inside the coach, and I head inside to crash out in Jim's dressing room, finding him in there, already pacing in his leather trousers.

"Eat." I order, and pass him a sandwich. He takes it disgruntledly, though I guess that he must be hungry, because I haven't seen him eat all day. He takes a few bites, and continues to pace, his steps slowing slightly as I sit down in his chair.

"Nervous?" I ask, and he rolls his eyes at me, turning to speak with his mouth full. 

 

"Do I look like I'd be nervous?" His words are a little scathing, and I laugh. He's fucking nervous. It's cute.  Crumbs fall onto his long t shirt, and I eye the feathered vest in its plastic wrapping, aware that he'll be wearing it soon.

  
"Relax," I say wryly, dropping down into a seat. "It's only forty thousand people. "

 

He takes off his t shirt, rolls it into a ball, and throws it at me hard.

 

\--

 

 

I feel like the day is running away from me. It doesn't seem like I've been in Jim's room for more than a few minutes, but it must have been at least an hour and a half,  because his call goes out, and he swears, pulling on his feathered vest. He takes a long breath, and stretches his arms above his head, and I see the cocky mask descend, his mouth pulling up slightly at the corners. It's quite something to watch

 

I can't even remember what we've been doing for so long. Ange and Rocky have been in and out, supplying us with more food, with press reviews of the tour, and copies of his CDs to sign for some competition. He hasn't stopped pacing, though his speed has slowed significantly, more a saunter as he walks across the room. I've been watching him, I realise. Just watching him. Listening to him hum one of his songs, and grin when he began his vocal warm ups. They're just scales - I think - but they sound ridiculous, and he scowls at me, batting at me as he walks past. I grab his wrist, and am reminded of that moment in the coach, Jim sitting in my lap as he sang the words at me , low and purring. He meets my eyes for a moment and I swallow, a smug grin appearing on his lips.

 

He tugs himself free as the call goes out, and I roll my eyes, following him to the door in his feather vest, watching him muss his hair and check the eyeliner that Ange reapplied ten minutes ago. The cacophony begins as he opens the door, and the stage hands are keen to meet him, the whole crew damn gathering there, and I stand in front of him, an arm extended. A few scuttle away disappointedly, but there are enough that remain to be irritating. A man with a headset waits to guide him to the stage, clutching an Ipad with a professional-looking itinerary on it.   
"Ready to go, Magpie?" He asks briskly, and Jim looks up at me with an amused smile, my arm still out before him. I give an eventual nod, and he drawls an amused; "Glad I have your permission."

We pass Rocky en route to the stage, the roar of the audience already audible as he texts, waving us away boredly. Jim is sauntering along in his leather trousers and feathered vest, and I have to roll my eyes at the stage hands, gathered around to watch him in awe as he stills, fingers clicking to the beat of his first song as it starts up for him.   
"I'll see you later." He drawls to me over the music, and the beginning of that buzz is behind his eyes, I can already see it. There's a double meaning to his words, and I wonder what he has planned. If anything. I won't let him leave the arena anyway, so he doesn't have a choice. I wish I wasn't looking forward to it. I'm a sick, sick man. 

"Yeah." I say, fairly firmly, meeting his gaze with a slight glint in my own. "Yeah, you will."

 

He smirks, and runs out on stage, confident steps pausing to put his hands in the air, the resulting, surging roar of the crowd so loud that I have to clamp my hands over my ears for a moment. It'll be a bad high tonight. I can tell. He'll need me there. But I'm ready.

 

\--

 

"You got somethin' you wanna tell me, Seb?"

Ange comes to stand next to me in the second half, and I haven't moved throughout. I watch him from the wings, listen to his voice echo around the arena, eyes following him as he swings from his balcony, and makes love to the microphone. His performances are so acrobatic, so energetic, and I wonder if that's how he got dubbed 'Magpie'. He's been glancing at the wings throughout, and only a few moments ago, pointed to me as he rolled his hips against the microphone, a smile playing on his lips as he sang. Cue hard on, cue eye roll and apparently - cue Ange.

 

I glance over at her and shrug, having to lean over to shout in each other's ears, Jim's sensual voice so loud.  
"..Not that I know of." I call back, and she just gives a pursed smile, shaking her head.

"Just be careful, y'idiot." She warns me, and squeezes my shoulder. "And I need you to go to their stockroom downstairs. Steal me a bottle of vino?"

I look at her exasperated, and she gives me a sweet smile. "Why can't.." I begin, but I already know what she'll say. I'm less likely to get caught, and less likely to get messed with if I get caught. I agree with a disgruntled sigh, and she stands on her toes to ruffle my hair, before I slap her away, hurrying off to find a quiet place to answer her ringing phone.

 

I jog away with a last, reluctant look at Jim, laying on his back on the stage as he holds the mike to his lips, and it's my favourite song. The fucking in the car song. The spotlight is on him, and he's running a hand down his chest, smearing the black glittered paint over his skin that will probably remain there for the next few hours. Determined to make it back before the end, I hurry down the stairs, and practically dive into the back room, the heavy door of the cellar concealing row upon row of cardboard packed wine, bags of crisps, kegs of beer, soft drinks for the arena's bars. It's dark and silent down here, just the faintest strains of Jim's music audible through the walls and I get the feeling that the staff avoid coming here unless they can help it. I snatch up a bottle of wine and turn back to the door - just to hear it click shut behind me. 

 

My heart leaps into my throat, and I pace over, pushing the door hard. It doesn't budge.   
"No. No, no no..." I say aloud, the words firm and just slightly panicked, and push hard at it again, and then slam my hands against it.  Once, twice, a third time. " _NO!_ "  
The word is a roar from my lips, and I'm kicking at the door, calling at the top of my voice. " _I'm locked in! Open the door! The fucking door!_ "

 

My heart has begun to pound in my chest, unease settling in my stomach. No one'll hear me down here. Jim's on his last song. And I'm not there to take care of his high. Shit. Shit, shit, fucking shit.

 

Someone's gonna die. 

 

The minutes begin to pass slowly, and I'm pacing with my hands in my hair and my heart slamming into my ribs, occasionally pausing to slam my fists against the door, or throw myself into it sideways, but it's thick metal, and it won't budge for love nor money. I square my feet, and tug at the handle, nearly putting my back out in the process. Still.. fucking.. not even an inch. 

 

I call for help, yelling at the top of my voice, but even when the music finally stops - and I begin banging on the door in a frenzied panic - no one can hear me.

 

\--

 

It can only be ten minutes since The Magpie has finished his show, but I've already given up hope. I sit behind the door, banging my head against the metal lightly, my expression a pained grimace. I've killed someone. Indirectly, I've secured the death of some kid. Some teenage girl clutching her CDs. I'm wallowing in self loathing when the door begins to open behind me, some ginger kid in an apron whistling as he tries to head inside. I'm on my feet within a few seconds, throwing myself past him and leaping up the stairs two at a time, his shocked protest following me up the stairwell. 

 

My heart races, and I'm pushing through the stage crew, ignoring complaints as I force my way through them, and almost collide with a man with a mop and bucket, heading out to clean up the black glitter paint.  
"Jim! Where's Jim?!" I yell at Rocky as I reach him, and he freezes, expression a little sheepish. "Where is he, Rocky? " I growl with a grimace. "I swear to fucking God.."

"He left." Rocky replies simply and frowns at me, shrugging. "You weren't there, man.."

I tear past him, and don't even grab my jacket before I'm racing for the fire exit, pushing out onto the packed pavement, Magpie fans lining the streets with their excited faces and glittering t shirts. I feel a stab in my chest at the sight of a group of them. They can't be older than fourteen. I frown towards the city, and spot a street a few hundred yards to my right, shining with lights. Bars? Nightclubs? Worth a shot. 

 

"Why didn't you just wait for me?" I'm muttering under my breath as I dash across the concrete, almost knocking over more fans in the process. They squeal as I force my way through. "You stupid.. stupid little.. fucking Christ.." The first bar is near empty, but I stalk through anyway, ignoring protests as I leap over the bar and check out the back. In the toilets. Nothing. The next is bustling, full of young people, and I swear under my breath, climbing onto a table to crane my neck for him, but there's no sign. I can't get out the back, but the toilets are empty, and I move on disgruntledly to the next. I get through seven bars, the terrible unease in my chest growing, and the hope dwindling in turn.

 

And then I find him. Unexpectedly, I find him. 

 

I'm about to call it a night, and the bar is the last on the strip. I grimace as I step inside, the walls lined with burly men drinking cocktails and foreign beer, and run a hand over my jaw as I resignedly check the toilets, and then force my way out of the back. The barman doesn't even bother to stop me, merely passing a sleepy glance my way as I stalk through to the door, and tug it open. 

 

I freeze.

 

Jim's leather trousers are undone, glitter streaked chest heaving in the light of the moon, his eyes closed as he tips his head back to drag in long, exultant breaths. The knife in his hand is coated red, crimson staining him to the wrist. The man lies in front of him on the cobbles, trousers still around his ankles, eyes staring glassily at the sky as the blood pools from his throat. I'm too late. I'm about ten fucking seconds too late.

 

My hand slips on the door handle, and Jim's head snaps up, eyes settling on me. His face, slack with satisfaction, suddenly hardens, and he lets the knife fall from between his fingers to clatter on the stones.

I hold his stare as I lift my phone to my ear, calling the number he'd tapped in only two nights ago. The quiet ringing is ominously loud in the silence between us.  
"Rocky." I say deceivingly calmly, my voice low as our eyes lock. "Johnny's Tavern. The back door." I say nothing else, and end the call, slipping my phone back into my pocket as I take a few slow steps over to him.

 

"..Sebastian," He begins, and the word is a lazy drawl of my name, though there's something behind it - half a plea, perhaps. He holds up his hands, like he's trying to reason with me, but everything about him is slack and boneless. Satisfied. He just fucked a man, and then stole his life. 

 

He gives me a slow smile that's relieved as I reach him with just the edge of an apology, and I'm staring back at him with an angered kind of revulsion, and even a half jealousy that it's taken me until now to clock. The realisation only makes things worse. A muscle pulses in my jaw. He reaches for me, and I pull back my fist, and punch him hard in the face.

 

\--

 

Jim topples back onto the cobbles, falling down and just missing the pool of blood that he's created with his blade. A manic bubble of laughter rises from his lips, and he spits blood onto the floor, though looks up at me after a moment, something hard in his eyes. He's no longer smiling at least, but I'm not sure if this is worse. He's looking at me with a kind of shock, fingers shaking as he puts his hand to his lip, and I realise that it's probably the first time someone's dared raised a hand to him in years. 

"Rocky's on his way." I say gruffly, and turn, propping the back door of the bar shut with a chair, before I stalk out into the night. I'm done here. I can't fucking deal with this right now. With him, and what he does, and what he's dragged me into. More of me than I wanted to give.

 

He doesn't try to stop me, and I leave him on the stones next to his victim, a hand pressed to his bleeding mouth.

 

\--

 


	10. After the High

When I reach the coach again, only Ange is there, curled up on the sofa with a blanket draped over her, a half empty bottle of beer on the table. Of course, Rocky's already ventured out to sort out Jim's mess. Pacing back, I thought about going straight home, but there are no trains this late, and I don't have enough money on me for a two hour cab fare. As much as I fucking hate him right now, I know that in some way, this is my fault. I don't want to stay. I don't want to have this fucking responsibility on my shoulders - the lives of Jim's dead conquests weighing me down. But I fucking chose this, and now I'm stuck.

 

I throw myself down on my tiny mattress, curled onto my side and fuming. My arms are crossed tightly over my chest, eyes boring into the wall as I seethe, hating myself and hating Jim. Hating 'The Magpie'.  I lay like that for what seems like hours, just thinking. Just staring into the darkness, wondering how I got myself into this mess. How I stood, watching him on stage tonight, feeling my stomach turning fucking somersaults and stoically ignoring it. The horror of that realisation, locked behind the stockroom door. 

 

Eventually, the coach door creaks open, and Rocky speaks quietly to Jim before I hear his steps on the ladder, quiet and light. Definitely Jim. I scowl, my fingers tightening on my sides as I stare at the wall. He crawls through to his bunk, and I think I can smell the blood on him, mingled with the rain that has battered the roof of the coach since I got back. He stops beside where I lay, and I feel a slight flutter in my stomach as he slowly pulls back my curtain, checking if I'm awake. Maybe he's about to say something. I'm tense, but I don't move an inch, staring determinedly at the wall and hoping he'll just think I'm asleep. I'm in no mood to speak to him. I'm lost in a fucking mess of feelings and responsibilities, and I hate it. I wish it was as easy as a fucking blow job to keep him out of trouble. 

 

After a long few moments, he replaces my curtain. I hear the sound of his wet clothes hitting the floor, and the creak of his own mattress. And then there's silence. A long silence.

 

I almost wish that he'd said something.

 

\--

 

I wake up early, to the sound of the rain still pattering steadily, echoing slightly inside the coach. I turn silently onto my back, and lay there for a few minutes, the memories flooding me with a stale kind of revulsion, mixed with a faint guilt. That man's blood is on my hands. Even if indirectly. 

I turn to look at Jim, the curtain of his bunk open. He's still wearing last night's body paint, smeared into his skin by the rain, though the leather trousers are crumpled elsewhere. He looks peaceful in sleep, though his hair is mussed against the pillow, a slight frown on his lips as he breathes evenly. Hating myself, I throw his blanket over him, and then grab some clothes from my bag and crawl for the ladder. I get dressed in the bathroom and walk past Ange and Rocky, both asleep on the sofas, more alcohol in front of them than was there before I went to bed last night. I'm going for a run, I decided when pulling the jogging bottoms from my bag. I need it.

 

I start at the arena, and make my way through the town centre, deserted at this time in the morning. It's peaceful, but I find it haunting. Like the calm after the storm, the quiet is resentful, and I'm wishing the rain was harder, that the pain in my lungs was fiercer, to distract me from the frenzy in my mind. The jogging is at least familiar and routine. Something I can control, like I'm failing to control Jim. Why couldn't he just wait for me? Just.. fucking.. wait for me? Thirty seconds late, I must have been. Thirty seconds, the difference between life and death. I'm trying not to take it as a personal insult that it was a man, too. Because it's not even like I couldn't have given him what he fucking wanted. 

 

I slow when I pass the strip of bars, even altering my route to run past the back of Johnny's Tavern. But there's no police tape. No blood on the cobbled stones, though the rain might have washed it away. I wish scathingly that I hadn't made that call, my pace quickening as I begin to run back across the grass. Wish I hadn't sent Rocky to clean up the mess. Called the police instead, watch them drag him away. Link him to hundreds of unsolved murders, maybe.

 

And then I don't wish that at all. I fucking hate this.

 

I finally get back to the coach, my t shirt sticking to my chest, and Rocky stands outside the door, only a few fans standing behind the barrier, huddled in the cold. I'm catching my breath as I walk over to him, and he zips up his hoodie before taking another drag of his cigarette.  
"Aren't you cold?" He asks, and I shake my head, my jaw set. He knows why, of course. He eyes me for a long few moments, and I pace slowly on the spot, running a hand through my hair and wishing that I'd jogged for longer. I'm not ready to be back here yet. Back around this fucked up little story. Rocky speaks again after a silent few minutes, stamping his cigarette under his unlaced boot. "..Ange is pissed about his lip."  
I shrug, folding my arms across my chest, my words still a little breathless. "He deserved it."  
Rocky rolls his eyes, but his gaze is a little pitying. He leans back against the coach, and frowns at me. "..He needs it, man." 

 

His words are quiet and sympathetic, but I see red, rounding on him with gritted teeth. "He needs it?" I spit, unable to raise my voice, lest the fans hear. "He fucking  _needs_ it?" I shake my head, and grimace at him. "He's messed up. Hell..  _you're_  messed up." I point at my temple, my words harsh, and wrench open the door.

"You're all _fucked up_."

 

\--

 

"We'll have to keep him away from the press." Ange announces snippily about an hour later, having been sitting glowering at me for most of that time. After cussing Rocky out, I showered, and then went back up the ladder to get dressed. Jim's curtain was drawn across, but I knew he wasn't asleep. Slow, rhythmic strums of a guitar were emanating from his bunk, so fucking peaceful that I had to resist tearing off that damn curtain and smashing the instrument. How dare he be fucking peaceful, after what he's done?  He didn't say a word to me, and I dressed quickly, before heading back downstairs. I've been sitting there since, eating stale, packaged sandwiches and reading a magazine so old that it's curled at the corners. 

"Guess so." I answer Ange gruffly, not even looking at her, and she sighs angrily, patting on her make-up in front of a plastic mirror propped on the table.   
"He has a radio interview in forty minutes." She answers, seemingly trying to force some kind of calm into her voice, though it comes across as a strained sneer. "Let's just be grateful it's not on camera."  
The sound of Jim's guitar continues to reach us as we sit in brooding silence, and I wonder if it's some sort of fucking rockstar rite of passage to be obsessed with that damn instrument - though I admit, I've never heard him play it on stage. It's always a backing track, or the arena band. He's too busy showing off.

"Sebastian," Ange begins again, putting both hands on the table and frowning at me. "I don't know what happened last night, but if you two have some kind of problem-"  
"It's Seb." I correct, and slowly turn a page of the magazine, not looking up. I know I'm being petty. Ange doesn't even know what's going on. It isn't her fault. She gives an exasperated laugh, and swears, shaking her head at me.

"Just sort it out. Please." She finishes flatly, trying to force some kind of authority into her voice. Rocky heads inside, and frowns at me, before stalking over to the partition separating us from Steve. He knocks twice. "Ready to go, big man." He calls, and the engine starts, ready to take us to another studio. Another cog in the rockstar wheel. Another mindless promotion for the man that so many wrongly adore. I feel fucking sick to be part of that group. I hate that I want to protect him, even now.

 

I wish I could say I'm angry. I've lost it now somehow, somewhere along the way. The resignation in my features could even mirror Rocky's. I don't want to be a part of this now any more than he does.

 

\--

 

Jim's fractured guitar numbers follow us all the way to the radio station. They seem to stop and start, as if frustrated, a slow tug of strings followed by a fast melody, and then silence as the coach pulls to a stop. Ange sets away her mirror, and Rocky looks up from his phone as Magpie descends the ladder, his eyes fixing resolutely on the window. And then the door. The sandwich crusts on the table. Anywhere but me, basically. My gaze settles on his lip, a slight purpling bruise outlining a straight gash, giving the illusion of a lip ring. Of course, even that looks fucking good on him. I resist the urge to snort, and Rocky heads out, clearing a path through the inevitable pit of screaming fans.

 

Disgruntledly, I head out after Ange, falling into bodyguard duty. Jim's looped a scarf around his mouth and nose to hide the cut, though he waves dutifully at his fans, not stopping to sign anything in the drizzle. I think I would have pulled him away rather violently if he had, so it's probably for the best. A few photographers linger and snap their cameras at us, and it seems to propel Jim forwards, hurrying into the studio and pressing his chin down against his chest. I don't feel guilty about hitting him. Why should I? He took a life.

 

\--

 

"So.. Magpie." The presenter goes on chirpily, and I take a sip of my coffee, adjusting the headphones. "Are we to expect a girlfriend on the scene any time soon?" I roll my eyes. The idiot covered the tour within a few questions, though to Jim's credit, he dragged them out as much as he could. There's only so much to be said for touring the states, and then returning to the UK for the finale stretch. Only so many times he can describe it as 'amazing', and '..great, yeah'. He tried to ask about Jim's childhood, but he laughed off the topic, using that Irish lilt to explain that he owed it all to his home town, to his family - and then said no more. Even the presenter seems to note Jim's reluctance to fall into his usual flirty, amiable character today. The poor guy is clutching at straws, he must be. It's evident from Jim's songs that he's a serial womanizer. A fucking girlfriend. I almost snort into my drink. We're still avoiding looking at each other. 

"Life on tour doesn't leave room for a girlfriend, I'm afraid, Danny.." He explains amusedly, and winks at the presenter, the man perking up and immediately berating him for his hopelessness.

"Nonsense! God - I bet a thousand girls would die to be with you!"

"..Interesting way of phrasing it." I mutter beneath my breath, and Jim stills, eyes swivelling to me and sticking there. I don't return his gaze. He's lucky I'm not wearing a damn microphone. Concealing his disgusting hobby isn't top of my agenda right now.

 

"That's a cross I have to bear." He answers eventually, smiling woefully at the presenter, who laughs and introduces an advert break, the interview finally over. Jim stands up, pushing back his chair with unnecessary force as a couple of techies descend on him to fit him with a better microphone, and guide him into the soundproof booth at the back, in preparation to play his song. It's the same one from the Graham Norton Show, a recent single and the promo for the last few stops of the tour. The station comes back on air, and he sings, his voice still sending shivers through me, much to my chagrin. It's weird to see him without his usual dancing, but he closes his eyes, and it's something else to focus just on that voice. He finishes, shakes hands with the presenter, and we leave - not before Ange has threatened the legal adviser with a lawsuit if they even think about discussing the cut lip with the press. 

 

Jim winds the scarf around his mouth, and as Ange and Rocky leave via the back door, holds up a hand, signalling that he needs five minutes. Rocky nods, but Ange frowns, before letting him drag her back to the coach. I'm set to follow Jim anyway, as disgruntledly as that may be, but Jim takes hold of my wrist, and tugs me towards the front doors. There are no fans waiting out here - because no talent would ever use these doors. We walk the street in broad daylight, and I hold my wrist gingerly out in front of me, a half grimace on my face as I wait to see where we're going. I've half a mind to pull back, to stalk back to the coach and just fucking leave me. He tugs me down an alley, two streets away. I wonder a little bitterly if he's somehow on a high from the radio performance.. If he's going to want something from me, and then fucking swipe that pathetic little blade across my throat. Wouldn't it just serve me right for staying? I'm musing that I might even let him, before he turns to me, dropping my wrist and tugging the scarf away from his mouth. He scowls at me.

"Anyone could have heard that. You were right beside my mic."

"Oh no.." I widen my eyes in mock horror, and bring a hand to my lips. "God forbid anyone finds out that you're a fucking murderer, right? Should I have been a bit quieter?" My words are a condescending sneer, and he grits his teeth, eyes dark as they find mine.

"I do whatever I want." He says after a long moment, and the words are slow and definitive. Those same fucking words that he's been spewing at me since we first met. A bitter grimace distorts his mouth for a moment, and his voice is harsh and angry. "What made you think you could change that?"  It takes him a considerable effort, but he manages a half smile, words shaking as he tries to keep them calm. "You think you're special?"

 

He's edged closer to me, and my fingers twitch at my sides, itching to curl into a fist, to add to the pretty gash on his lip. He deserves it. He deserves every ounce of pain that I can give him, and yet I don't. My fury explodes into a hissed rant, shoulders squared as I lean into his space, and he curls his fingers hard against my collar, trying to hold me back. 

"I think you're a spoiled little brat. I think you get everything you fucking want, every single time - and you know what? Maybe if you weren't such a scared little fucker, you'd be able to come down from the high without sinking that knife into their throats. What, you think they're that embarrassed about shagging you? About letting you touch them? A jumped up fucking ' _Grease_ ' extra with a passable voice and no manners? So fucked up that the drugs won't even get through his _thick skull_  any more." I mime flicking him in the forehead, and he flinches. I give a bitter laugh, and he deserves every word. "You kill them to save them the  _embarrassment_  of being with you in the first place.." 

 

He's quiet for a long few moments, shock still, wild eyes still fixed on me as if I'm still speaking, though I hold his gaze, not moving an inch. I don't doubt that he has his natty little knife in his pocket, and his hand is still screwed up in the material of my collar. The words reverberate in my mind, and no doubt in his as we stand in silence. I don't care. I wait for his anger, for his knife. 

"..A ..' _Grease'_.. extra?" He repeats, and I blink incredulously. Out of everything I just said, that's the insult that he takes from it? That's the most offensive fucking thing? It's almost comical, but any amusement is crushed by how fucking angry I am with him.

"Yes." I growl, my teeth gritted, as though I'm calling him the worst slur, the most vile abuse that I can think of. If that's how he wants it. "..' _Grease_ '."

 

His mouth quirks at one corner, and it's mirrored on my own lips - much to my chagrin.

 

A beat of silence passes between us, and then his expression crumples slightly. It's almost unnoticeable - just a slight fall of the tight set of his mouth, a softening of the fury in his eyes.  
"You weren't there." He says, the words so quiet that I can barely make them out.   
"Yeah." I answer, not moving, that hand so tight in my shirt that the material is digging into the skin at the back of my neck.  
"What was I supposed to do?" He asks just as quietly, a slightly desperate resignation joining the accusation in his voice.   
   
"Maybe, control yourself." I reply crisply, though the fury no longer saturates my words, and my expression has downgraded somewhat to just 'pissed off', rather than 'murderous'. Though he's still the only murderer here.

  
"You have no idea what it's like." He answers, and at last releases his fist from my shirt, pushing himself back against the wall, and kicking at a can on the concrete. His voice is low, thick with self-loathing, and a little despairing. I've never seen him like this. "No fucking idea." I don't answer, and he grits his teeth after a moment, his expression descending into a desperate grimace. His hands fly to his head and fist in his hair, and he's repeating the words, seeming to get more desperate with each recitation.   
"No idea.. no.. no fucking _idea_.."

 

Something seems to drop in my stomach, and I can't stand it. I don't like it. He's not the Magpie. He's not the Jim I know, with his smug remarks and the smile that can undress me from across the room. I feel like I'm seeing him for the first time, or at least a part of him that struggles with what he is. What he does. It's a relief. It's a fucking relief and a half. He's human. 

 

I take a few quick steps over, and take his face in my hands, prying his rough hands from his own hair.  
"I have no idea?" I counter with a quiet insistence, a low anger as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I have no idea, Jim? You know what it was like, down in that fucking cellar? Beating my fists on the door, knowing what you were about to go and do? To yourself, and to some.. some innocent person? Knowing that I couldn't do a fucking thing about it? Couldn't.. fucking help you?"

He tries to pull out of my grasp, but I hold fast, and he meets my gaze with a grimace. He spits the words at me, angry and ragged from his throat.  
"Why do you even care? You can walk away from all of this! You can walk away. Walk away." He shouts them. " _Walk away!_ "

"Stop that." I hiss, and push him back slightly against the wall. He purses his lips, and looks away, seemingly biting back another angered tirade. "I don't know why I care." I admit, just as furiously. "But I just.. fucking do." I push his hands back against the wall, as if to emphasise my point. "I care. Alright? I fucking care about  _you_. Yeah. I do."

I shrug and my cheeks are pink, I'm sure, but it's true. It's fucking true. I care more about him than I wanted to, and I'm more involved than I ever thought I'd allow myself to get. I'm holding his hands back against the bricks of the alleyway, and focus my gaze on the concrete, not willing to see the scathing reaction to my words. The silence is thick for a long few seconds, and to my surprise, he's stopped struggling to pull away. 

 

I finally risk a glance up, and his gaze is settled on my lips.

 

 I feel a slight ripple of something in my stomach, and freeze as he tilts his head, leaning in to close the gap between us. My hands are still pinning him back against the wall.. and he kisses me.

 

\--

 


	11. Between Us

This isn't the first time that Jim has kissed me, but somehow it's entirely different. He's not on a high, and the usual rough, excited kiss isn't there - his mouth is uncharacteristically soft and slow, and I can feel the slight bump of the cut on his lip. My hands loosen on his own, no longer forcing him back against the wall, and he lifts his fingers to twine in my hair, pulling me closer to him. I haven't really stopped to think, and wonder for a moment if he's known all along about my fucking infatuation. Maybe he's just playing with me.

 

I pull back slightly at the thought, and he looks back at me, his eyes a little glassy and lips parted breathlessly. His hands loosen in my hair, and we regard each other warily for a moment before I speak.

"Let me guess.." My voice doesn't sound like my own; a little too low, a little too dazed. "You.. do whatever you want, right?"

 

"..Right." He agrees, his own voice somehow even more shaken than my own, though he manages to inject it with a kind of smugness, before he leans in and kisses me again, sucking my bottom lip lightly into his mouth. A sound catches in my throat, and my hand slips to his jaw, keeping him there. I pull away again, but speak against his mouth, words low and attempting a firm tone.

"You're not forgiven." 

 

He nods, but leans in to try and kiss me again, and my mouth quirks amusedly at the corner. He's so used to getting what he wants. "What you've done is wrong." I add, avoiding his eager mouth as it tries to trap mine. 

"And you'll never do it again." I warn simply, and then let him kiss me at last, both of his hands twining roughly in my t shirt to tug me to him. I wish I knew what I was doing. Where I stand. For all I know, I could just be another of his toys. His distractions that only last long enough to numb the high, but never remove it completely.

 

I wish I could say that I cared.

 

\--

 

When I feel his fingers curling around the hem of my t shirt, I pull back and give a small shake of my head. I'm not averse to fucking in an alley - and obviously, neither is he - but I don't want to waste this, or rush it. Better to use it to get him off a high, right? Not to mention, it's the middle of the damn day, and we're not exactly concealed from the street. I kiss him a last time, and the low sigh that he makes against my mouth is almost enough to make me go back on my decision, but I force myself away, tugging him back towards the coach with me. We walk in silence, sun breaking through the clouds and the rain only a fine drizzle, though it wets our hair to our foreheads and slicks our skin. I glance over at him, and catch him smiling rather unexpectedly, though as soon as he feels my eyes, he bites it back, looking away sheepishly. I slide my hands into my pockets, a warmth in my chest as I keep my eyes on the ground. We edge a few inches further apart when we pass the fans waiting outside the coach, and it's a slight dampener.. I realise that he's got a reputation to protect; the consummate womaniser, and frown, realising just how detrimental it would have been for his career if that argument, and specifically, the impassioned resolution, had been in public.

 

I slip inside the coach first, and he follows me, Ange looking up with an exasperated; "Where the hell have you two been?". Jim rolls his eyes at her and heads upstairs, and I slide into a seat beside Rocky, letting him deal me into the next game of cards. The engine starts, and we're en route back to the arena, a daft smile on my face when the others aren't looking. Or maybe they catch sight of it a couple of times. I'm beginning not to care. So what if they see? So what if I'm fucking infatuated with a rockstar? So what if he's also, coincidentally, a murderer? We all have our vices, part of me argues pathetically.

 

Upstairs, Jim's guitar starts up again, and I can even hear him singing, but his voice is the barest whisper. I'm dying to go up there, to sit and listen to him properly, but I need to keep some sort of normality here. I don't even know what's going on. Only that I saw a glimpse of him back there. A real person, below the facade that he presents to the world. I know, deep down, that he enjoys his murders. That he needs them, in some sense, as much as I hate that. I'm lost in my thoughts as we arrive back at the arena, a staff member bringing us out a tray of chicken burgers and fries. Ange whoops, and Rocky laughs, the three of us exultant at real - warm - food, and Rocky shouts Jim down, the guitar ceasing as he comes to join us. I berate myself internally at the skitter of my heart as he descends the ladder, sitting himself at the table with his legs propped up on the seat, and purposely not looking at me. I'm doing the same, though when I risk a glance over my chicken burger, I notice the sheepish smile on his lips, mirroring my own. Jesus Christ, we're a couple of fucking teenagers. But it gives me hope.

 

It barely seems that we've been sat together for a couple of minutes before Ange is herding us back towards the arena, ready to prepare for showtime again. Tomorrow we head off to Manchester, and the trucks will start driving right after the show, as soon as they've packed away the sets. Jim rolls his eyes and complains about sound check as I walk him to the building, my arms laden with his clothes - leather trousers and a new, plastic wrapped feathered vest. God knows where the other one ended up, last night. We walk slowly, and when we're out of the sight of the fans, he reaches over and runs his fingers over mine, though I can't do anything with my arms full of stuff. I swallow and smile, looking away, and he laughs quietly, shaking his head at us both. I know it's fucking pathetic. I don't think I've ever felt happier. It's sick. I know that. I don't even know where this is going. And fuck, I can't remember how I got this involved.

 

Rocky takes him to one side when we get there, and I carry on to his dressing room, setting out his things. When I return, there's a slight smile on Rocky's face, and he waggles his eyebrows at me, my cheeks immediately growing hot. I look to Jim, and he shrugs, a coy grin on his face. So much for keeping it between us, then. Whatever 'it' is. It was just a kiss, right? And it's hardly the first time, or the most that's happened between us. But I know somehow that it's different. He's heading to the stage for sound check, but I pull him back, my fingers light around his arm.  
"What was that?" I ask, my voice low and an attempt at amused, and he folds his arms across his chest with a nonchalant shrug.

"He was recommending a place for this evening. Easy clean up, that sort of thing. Usually does."

I frown, and he reaches up, dragging a finger lightly across my lips as he continues, the action making my mouth dry. Again, I wonder if this whole thing is just him playing with me.  My eyes flick to his own lips, and he smiles. "..I told him I won't be going out tonight." He adds slowly, and I nod firmly. Damn right he won't. 

 

"Good." I answer, and I think he might have kissed me again if the stage manager hadn't appeared around the corner, the both of us leaping apart as he consults his Ipad and nods at Jim, who pouts.

"We're ready for you, sir."

\--

 

I reluctantly leave Jim to his rehearsal, and spend the sound check walking around and getting everything ready. I set up a rack beside the stage for the mid-show change, and walk down to prop that fucking cellar door open with a couple of heavy wine boxes. There won't be anything to keep me away tonight, I'll make sure of it. When I'm finally satisfied, I find Jim in his dressing room, tugging on a fresh pair of his leather trousers before throwing his t shirt at me, and I roll my eyes and hang it back up. I take the feathered vest from the rack and walk over to him, helping him into it with a slight smile, and enjoying when he leans back against me, his skin warm. He stays there for a moment, leaning his head back against my shoulder, before pushing himself away and passing me his eyeliner pencil, Ange and Rocky busy talking to the set boys outside.

Biting back a grin, I slip my hand to his chin again, holding him there as I line his eyes, decidedly getting good at this now. He meets my eyes, and somehow those pre-show jitters aren't quite there yet, though his gaze is a little more determined, a little more sure of himself than he was in the alley. He reaches up to muss his hair, and someone knocks on the door, just twice before opening it. Sure enough, we spring apart, and I accidentally draw a line of black across my palm, Jim raising his eyebrows coolly at the stage hand dropping off the small pile of letters. The boy blushes red and hurries back out, locking us back into silence.

 

This time we don't delay, and Jim is on me almost before I realise it, pushing me back against the wall and kissing me. I'm laughing breathlessly against his lips, and then kissing him back in turn, sliding my tongue into his mouth and barely even noticing the foot slipping between my own. He trips me, pushes me down onto my back on the carpet with the grace of a damn ballerina and I grin, folding my arms beneath my head as he straddles my hips. Always the fucking show off. Him and his bloody gymnastics. He reaches for his pile of letters as he sits atop me, tearing open an envelope. His voice is a high and mocking English accent as he reads through the first couple of fan letters, and I'm laughing as I listen, feeling like we've been like this for years, rather than hours. It's like he's letting go. Sharing himself with me. I know I shouldn't feel so damn happy, but fuck it, I am. The posh accent has me grinning as I lay looking at him, wondering how I got this far. All that's left to do is fix his little problem.

"Dearest 'Mister' Magpie, you are absolutely my _favourite_ artist, and I would utterly  _die_  if you came to Brazil-"

He pauses to grimace at me, and I snort, reaching down to run my fingers tentatively down his leather clad thighs.  
"Brazil could be nice." I muse innocently, and he rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he tosses the letter aside and picks up the next.

"Hello, Jim," He continues in that daft accent. " _May_ I call you Jim? Your music is my _inspiration_.." He gives a mock bow, flourishing with the paper, and I can't stop fucking smiling.

"Idiot." I murmur as he opens the next, and he rolls his hips against me, my back arching off the floor an inch at the unexpected friction. He shoots me a smug and simpering smile, and I nearly stick out my tongue - before I watch the amusement die on his lips.

 

A concerned line forms between my brows as I frown and I tilt my head at him and whatever he's just taken from the envelope.

"What is it?" I murmur, my tone still half amused. "Someone else think you look like Danny Zuko?"

His lips are pursed into a frown, dark eyes suddenly a little fearful, and I prop myself up on my elbows, my voice wary. "..Jim?"

He doesn't answer for a long moment, and then his gaze flicks to me anxiously, and he turns the photograph deftly between his fingers to face me. 

 

It's a picture of a smiling man, greyscale, could be a professional photograph. He's smiling, and I've.. I've seen those fucking eyes before - staring glassily up at the sky as blood pooled from his throat. This is Jim's kill from last night, and my heart skitters uncomfortably at the realisation. I swallow, and my eyes flick to the lettering, written in thick red marker across the smiling man's suit.

 

_'I admire your work.'_

 

 

\--


	12. Set on You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You're The One That I Want](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rtFwVpKM6cs)

 

I'm still staring dumbly at the photograph as Jim clambers off me, standing and holding it in both hands, staring hard at it with worried eyes. I watch him from the floor, my heart thudding in my chest, and he turns to look at me after a moment, his words suddenly harsh as he drops the photograph to his side.  
"Is this some kind of joke?"

  
"You think this was me?" I ask with quiet incredulity, climbing to my feet. "Jim, I wish I could tell you that it fucking was.." I shake my head and step closer, and he brings a hand to his mouth, beginning to chew anxiously on his thumbnail. There's a kind of fear in his eyes that's different to what I saw earlier in the day. I realise that I've never seen him scared of another person - that he was always in control, in whatever situation. Earlier, he was scared of himself. Of what he'd done. And yeah.. it looks as though it's coming back to bite him. It's mad that only a few hours ago, I might have welcomed this.

 

Now, I step towards him again, my hands finding his upper arms, and turning him to look at me.  
"Listen." I say firmly. "It doesn't mean anything. Not yet. We don't know that some fucker hasn't just seen you take this guy out the back." I tap at the photograph. 

"I admire your work." Jim hisses, panic starting behind his gaze. "What else could that fucking mean? They're not talking about my skills in the fucking bedroom, are they?"

"I don't know, Jim." I answer coolly, "But jumping to conclusions won't help us. We need to find Rocky-"

"No." 

Jim shakes his head, and his hands find my chest, balling in my t shirt. The word was immediate, panicked, interrupting my own, and I raise my eyebrows.

"We're not telling Rocky." He continues seriously. "I can't. If he thinks.. he won't.. he'll stop me from.." He swallows, and he's beginning to descend into some kind of panic attack, and this is the last damned thing we need before a show.

"I'm already stopping you." I remind rather firmly, and reach over to tilt his chin up to look at me. "Calm down, alright? Jesus.. just.. calm down. We don't even know what this fucker knows. And we  _have_ to tell Rocky."

"We are not telling Rocky." Jim hisses, and pushes me hard, my fingers curling into fists at my sides in irritation. He won't even listen to reason. He begins to pace, hands fisting in his hair, and I sigh a little helplessly, starting towards him again. 

_'The Magpie to the stage, this is your five minute curtain call.'_

"Shit." I mutter, and hurry over to him, Jim in  no state to play a show. I have to do something. If this fucker really knows what Jim thinks he knows, then he'll surely be watching. He'll see him fall to pieces on stage, or not even make it onto the damn stage. I slip my hands to Jim's cheeks, and stroke softly over the skin, his eyes darting around as he becomes consumed by his thoughts. If I didn't know better, I'd think that he was on a high.

 

"Guys?" Rocky knocks on the door, and I can hear the stage manager with him, and Ange's voice too. "We ready?"

"Jim.." I say softly, and try and force him to focus, his expression still wild. I wonder idly what he's thinking. About the loss of his career. His freedom, maybe. "Jim." I say again, but there's no response. At last, I give him a little shake. " _Magpie_." I say firmly, and that seems to get through to him, his eyes flicking to me. He blinks a few times, and then swallows and nods, as the banging on the door starts up again.

"Seb? Jim? What's going on?"

"Coming, Ange."

I bend down slightly, and kiss Jim on the cheek, chaste compared to how furiously we were going for each other only ten minutes ago. I straighten the feathered vest, and tip his chin up with my finger, making him look at me.

"You go out there," I order firmly, "And you give them a show. You hear me? Whoever this fucker is, they won't expect that. You don't let them see that they've got you. They  _haven't_ got you."

He's nodding meekly, and then rubbing his eyes, smearing the eyeliner a little, but it still looks alright, and Ange and Rocky are about to break the door down.   
"Opening number!" Ange shrieks, and Jim swallows, squeezing my hand as the mask falls over his face, with just a little more difficulty than usual. He saunters to the door, and I don't think I've ever been more relieved to see that smug, bastard rockstar. He yanks open the door, and I have to jog to keep up; Ange, Rocky, the stage manager and the stage hands all forcing him hurriedly towards the stage.

 

He doesn't even get a moment to compose himself before he's forced under the bright lights, and I wince, expecting to see him stand motionless, the frightened little bird that I was just holding between my fingertips.

 

He surprises me.

 

He saunters onto the stage as if nothing has happened, running a hand through his mussed hair and taking the microphone lazily with the other, that honeyed voice slipping from his lips to serenade a roaring audience.  Rocky is looking at me exasperatedly, and Ange says something to him quietly, the both of them probably assuming that we were fucking in the dressing room. I'm still holding the photograph in my hand, and I crumple it into my fist.

 

\--

 

I don't move from the side of the stage throughout the first half, and it goes off without a hitch, Jim looking for all intents and purposes like he's having the time of his life. He doesn't glance over at me as much as usual, and his movements seem a little more choreographed than the usual improvised gymnastics that he adores, but he's giving them a fucking good show, and I'm a little relieved. I squeeze his fingers during his quick change between halves, and he gives me a small smile, eyes already half wild from the high, though they manage to meet mine for a long few moments. I feel slightly reassured, at least. And surely if the bastard knew about the dead man - or had real proof - he'd have sent a photo of that, instead. He's got nothing, I tell myself.

 

Magpie dashes back out, wrapped in his crime scene tape, and begins the second half, and I've half forgotten the damn photograph myself, shoved down deep in my pocket. Ange and Rocky have relaxed at last, and one of the stage hands passes me a beer, celebrating the last Sheffield show, but I decline. I might be relaxed, but I'm still not particularly feeling like celebrating right now. And I need to be at my best to deal with Jim's high.

 

He reaches the fucking in a car song at last - I really need to learn the damn name of that one - and I grin as he writhes on the stage with his black paint, making love to the mic. I glance at the clock, and we've finished about ten minutes early, which is rare. But maybe for the best. More time to calm him down afterwards. He finishes on his knees again, smeared with the paint, and the audience roars, on their feet for him. The stagehands clap with me, and I think Ange is already half drunk, Rocky propping her up and giggling himself, a bloody strange sight for the huge man, still wearing another comically tight t shirt. 

 

But Jim doesn't leave the stage. I raise an eyebrow as he holds a finger to his lips, and the audience quieten, an excited hum running through the arena. The Magpie holds out a hand, and one of the stage hands runs over, pressing his guitar into his arms before dashing off again, and I'm frowning, looking back at Ange and Rocky though both shrug at me. This must have been cleared in sound check, while I was running around sorting out that fucking cellar door and Jim's outfits.

 

Silence falls, and Jim passes his fingers over the strings of his guitar a few times, walking to the front of the stage and slipping the mic back into the stand. Seemingly satisfied, he stands back, and begins to play, an echo of the tune he's been half-playing in the coach for the past day. I wait, my arms folded loosely across my chest, until his voice begins to drift back at me, the same low, velvety sound that's usually accompanied by the blaring background tracks. It sounds beautiful, just with the echoing strum of his guitar.

 

" _I got chills, they're multiplying..  
_ _..And I'm lo - sing control.._  
 _..Cause the power.. you're supplying, is electrifying.."_

 

Wait.. what?  
His guitar picks up again, carrying on the slow strumming tune. Jim starts singing again.

 

_"You better shape up.. cause I need a man..  
And my heart is set on you.."_

  
No he isn't. No he fucking isn't singing that damned song, from that damned musical, that I said he looked like a damned extra from.

Right before we started snogging in a fucking alley. An exasperated laugh leaves my lips, my mouth hanging open slightly as my hands fall to my sides in shock. 

  
_"You better shape up.. you better understand.._  
 _To my heart I must be true.._  
 _Nothing left, nothing left for me to do.._ "

 

I have to admit, his voice sounds fucking amazing with the guitar. It's sensual and slow, the words ten times slower than they should be, the guitar a low and drawling tune. The audience are singing along too, a cacophony of surging voices, all rising and falling with his words. I'm watching, transfixed, when he turns to look straight at me, lips brushing the microphone as he tilts his head, a shadow of a smirk on his lips, as if we hadn't had a trauma in the dressing room only two hours ago.

_"You're the one that I want,_

_You are the one I want, oh, oh, oh.. honey.."_

 

He winks, and I roll my eyes at him. The smug little bastard. He must have fucking practiced this and everything, just to get back at me for that 'Grease' remark. I'm grinning, though, resisting the urge to cover my face like a fucking teenage girl. He's got thousands of people in front of him, hanging on his every word, and yet his attention is fixed on me. Disgraced army colonel. And fuck it, I love every second.

 

 

_"The one that I want,_

_You are the one I want, oh, oh, oh.. honey.._  
 _The one that I need.._  
 _Oh, yes.. indeed.."_

He strums the guitar again, slower this time, and repeats, his voice a low and morose lilt into the microphone.

_"Oh yes, indeed.."_

 

He finishes with a wink at his audience, to tumultuous applause. I've never heard them this fucking loud. The arena is exploding, and Jim laughs, giving a mock bow. The stage manager gestures at him from offstage, and he nods. He has to give an encore. He runs a hand through his hair with a black, glittery hand, and starts on another of his songs, just to calm his crowd. 

 

I can't stop fucking smiling. The bloody idiot.

 

\--

 

When he finally, finally comes off the stage, his eyes are exultant - and fixed only on me, even when we're swarmed by the stage hands. I slip reluctantly into bodyguard mode, an arm finding its way around his paint-slicked waist, my other hand held out as I guide him back to the dressing room. Jim smiles graciously as he's complimented on the show, Rocky squeezing him around the shoulders and Ange passing him a drink, which he immediately passes to a stage hand. It's a mess of 'thank yous' and 'well done's and requests for autographs that we just don't have time for, and it's a relief when I finally shut the dressing room door behind us both, locking us into silence.

 

He walks a little further into the room, peeling the remnants of the police tape from his belt, and glancing over his shoulder at me, his chest still heaving with the adrenaline. "..Did you like your song?" He drawls, and I push myself away from the door, a grin on my lips as I slip my arms around his waist, and pull him to me. He turns fluidly in my grasp, arms twining around my neck, his hands forceful in my hair as he brings his mouth to mine, the kiss a little rough and needing. I can feel the beating of his pulse through his skin, hard and fast, his eyes a little wild even as he closes them, and already, the kissing isn't enough for him. His arms tighten around my neck, and he lifts a leg, my hands coming to rest on his arse as he wraps them both around my waist.

"I did like it." I murmur against his mouth, but he doesn't pause to listen, those fingers rough and hard in my hair. I fall back against the wall with him, and he bites down on my lip, dragging a premature groan from my throat. I've never been your slow and sensual kind of guy, but Jesus, this is something else.. 

"Sebastian.." He growls my name into my mouth, the sound sending a flurry of heat down through my stomach. He leans back for a second, grabbing at the hem of my t shirt, and adding a rather aggressive; "Take off your fucking clothes." I lift up my arms obligingly, and he tugs away my t shirt, though my hands return to his arse to keep him at my waist. I don't think he even needs the help, the fucking acrobat. Smirking, he drops his head to mouth at the 'M' that he carved into my skin, and I tip my head back against the door, biting down on my lips and deciding to do the same to his 'S'.

 

A few moments later and Jim pulls himself away from me without warning, pacing a few steps away and fumbling with the button and zipper of his leather trousers. I roll my eyes with a half smirk and reach down to my own, my words a little amused.

"You just want me bent against the wall like the rest of them?" I ask, my words a little rough, even if there's a smile in them. I didn't quite expect to be as fucking eager for this as he is, but sue me. His hands go still on the leather for just a moment, and he looks up at me, his cheeks flushing pink. I raise an eyebrow, not sure what I've done, and take a step towards him. Jesus Christ, if I've ruined this..

 

"What is it?" I ask, wondering if he's having another panic about the damn photograph, or deciding that he needs a kill after all. I don't know what I'd do if it's the latter and my mind is cycling through my options - tie him to the sofa, use my mouth on him again, lock all the damn doors and windows - when he speaks.

"I want you to take me." He says, and the words are simple and matter-of-fact, despite his flushed cheeks and the slight breathless edge to his voice. It takes me a few seconds to realise what he means, still stuck in my slight panic about stopping him from killing someone. All the air seems to eke from my chest in a long breath, and my hands find the small of my back. I nod a little nonchalantly, my mouth dry.

"..Yeah?" I lick my lips. "Yeah, alright."

This is different. I know that much. I've only seen him kill two, but both of them he'd fucked his own way, and it doesn't take a genius to know that he takes the upper hand. And inexplicably, he's giving the control to me. It's a wordless promise that he isn't going to try and kill me, and you know, I appreciate that in my partners. 

 

I'm still standing there when he walks back over, pressing a cool tube into my hand. He's stripped right down to that fucking leather thong, and when I raise an eyebrow at the thing, he laughs, his hands curling around my own trousers and tugging them right down until I can step out of them. He's resting on his haunches, and rises back to his feet fluidly, passing a hand over my tenting underwear as he does so, a sound catching in my throat. He smiles, and I notice the distinct lack of condom, suddenly a little aghast.

"Please tell me you used a condom with all your-"

He rolls his eyes, batting away the question impatiently and pulling me in. "Of course I did. I can't leave DNA at the scene."

I nod, fucking relieved as hell as I put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back towards the sofa and then down on it, tossing the lubricant onto one of the cushions. He watches me with dark eyes and parted lips as I come to rest between his knees, kneeling on the floor, and slip my thumbs beneath the thong, slowly peeling it from him and tugging it from his ankles. Rising up for a moment, I treat myself to another kiss, watching those wild eyes flutter closed, and feeling his fingers dig into my shoulders. I don't stay there for long, and slip down to press my mouth to his neck, beginning a trail of kisses down the skin and leading to his collar bone. The remnants of the drying black paint taste metallic on my lips, but I continue my pattern, the sounds that Jim makes at my kisses seeming entirely too soft to be coming from that mouth. 

 

The second I'm between his legs, he wraps them tightly around my neck, and I have to resist the urge to laugh as I look at him, though the sight sends another dark flutter of  heat into my stomach. His back is half arched off the sofa, his pupils blown even before we've really gotten anywhere. He needs this, I realise, and begin slicking up my fingers with cool liquid from the tube as I mouth at him, taking him lazily past my lips. I don't want this to be over too soon, and it already looks as though it's going to be that way - his fingers digging dents into the sofa. 

 

I lean back a little, and he groans quietly at the loss of my mouth, the sound sending a shudder through me as I run a slick finger down between his cheeks. I circle him, and then after a moment, slip inside, his ankles still up and over my shoulders. I've never fucked a man before, though we'd 'help each other out' in the barracks, hands and mouths freely available. I know the process though, know that I need to move agonisingly slowly, despite Jim pressing himself down against my hand, his fingers scrabbling at my skin to try and bring me closer. I sink further carefully, pumping and circling my finger and when he continues bearing down, finally slip in a second and drag a groaned curse from his lips. I'm achingly hard, and have to press myself against the sofa to stall myself, fingers slick and scissoring him open, his body hot and tight around them.   
"Jesus.. Christ.." I murmur quietly, letting myself look at him. He's splayed on the sofa, muscles in his arms and chest taut as he clings onto the upholstery, his mouth slightly open and eyes glazed as he watches me. Just a hint of that dark smugness remains in them, still. 

  
"Hurry up, for fuck's.. sake.." He whines breathlessly, pushing down against me again, and I slick up a third finger at last, and push it inside him. The muscles in his legs tense as he points his toes, his ankles still at my neck. I move slowly, pumping and twisting, and he's beginning to rock with me, his eyes closing and a hand travelling to his stomach to palm lightly at himself, the sight making me shiver, and I have to press myself harder against the sofa. 

"Fuck.. Jim.." I growl, and his eyes snap open, his look almost defiant through his haze, and I know what he's saying. I don't need telling twice, and remove my fingers, squeezing the whole damn tube over myself and giving a few wet strokes. The sound is a little obscene, though it has Jim clawing at my hips, legs dropping to wrap back around my waist as I press myself lightly against him. I lean in to kiss him as I sink inside, our mouths opening against each other, a silent groan on my part, and a not so silent one from Jim, gasped into my mouth and followed with a rough, desperate curse. Fucking Christ he's warm around me, and I've never bloody felt anything like it - I can feel him tight, and quivering from the inside as I sink down to the hilt, closing my eyes for a moment to let myself get used to the sensation. He's breathing raggedly and I assume that he too is letting himself grow accustomed, before he's batting at me, tugging at my arse with fervent hands. The sounds that leave his mouth are beautifully needy.

"Sebas.. c.. come on.. fucking -   _move._."

 

My hands slip down to his hips, holding him to me, still kneeling beside the sofa and obediently, I give a slow roll of my hips, the desperate sounds that leave us both in response mingling in the warm air of the dressing room.   
"Again-" He gasps, and I comply, bottom lip caught so harshly between my teeth that I think I might make it bleed. God, he's so fucking beautiful like this - his hair mussed against the sofa, eyes glassy and yet concentrating on me, his hands attempting to claw at my waist and leaving thick, red marks behind. I don't need reminding a third time, or a fourth, and soon those fucking gorgeous little gasps of his are filling the air, joined by the slow slap of skin on skin, and my own shallow grunts when I can't keep them back any longer.

 

I can still hear the cacophony of voices outside, the stage hands clearing up and the men piling our sets back into the lorries for Manchester. I can even hear Ange every now and then, cackling at something Rocky says, before their voices fade away again, and then the buzz of the crowd outside as they leave the arena, no doubt still discussing Jim's performance. And not a single one knows what their star is currently doing in this room, with his damned _bodyguard_  of all people.

 

" _Sebastian._." Jim groans, and the sound is a loud, dragged out utterance of my full name, and I don't even mind that he's using it. It snaps me back to the present, and I begin to move with a frenzied pace, hips slapping against his skin and rocking him hard into the sofa, his resulting, keening gasps almost dragging me over the edge already. His hand slips over to touch himself, and I tug it away, my fingers still clutching hard at one of his hips as I slam against him, and use my free hand to try and stroke him in time with our movements. It's all becoming a bit of a haze, if I'm honest. Those dark, lust-blown eyes keep me centered, but outside that, the room is just a blur of dulled colour and background noise, hot skin beneath my hands and around my cock. 

 

All at once, Jim arches his back, and scratches bloodied paths across my waist, his mouth open in a single, ragged cry of my name. I shudder at the sight, and he's suddenly impossibly tight, my body only managing to slam against his twice more before I come hard, toppling over the edge into white bliss and a throbbing, fucking impossible release.

 

It takes me a few long moments to regain my senses, and I'm gasping, my chest heaving as I look down at him, legs still clinging onto my waist as he looks up at me, his hair mussed over a damp forehead, and his eyes gloriously sated. A little shakily, I pull out, not missing his slight sound of protest as I drag him closer to me, resting our foreheads together as we breathe. My heart races in my chest, and after I moment I muster a slow grin, his hands slipping to twine lightly in my hair. He rolls his eyes at my own smugness, and kisses me lightly, his own mouth lazy with just the hint of a tremble. Nothing is said for a long few minutes, and it's just fucking perfect. It might not have been the slow, loving sex from the films, but Christ, that was a good fuck. And I wouldn't change a fucking second.

"..Not bad." I breathe amusedly at last, and push him back onto the sofa, climbing next to him and curling him against my body. 

"Mm.." He hums, and drags my arm tighter around his waist, my fingers coming to rest on his ribs, able to feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest. His words are a faint, breathy shadow of his usual smug drawl. "..S'pose I can.. keep you alive.."

I grin again, and lean down, pressing my mouth to just below his ear, and watching goosebumps rise on his skin. "You know.." I murmur, teasing. "..I really did like that song."

 

He elbows me in the side, and meekly drags the sofa throw to cover our waists, the both of us laying in an undoubtedly addictive kind of bliss. And for once, we come down from the high together.

 

\--

 


	13. Oiling Up

When we wake up, I barely register that we've slept, but my back is already aching from this tiny fucking sofa. Jim is still pressed against me, his skin hot, though he's turned around to face me at some point in the night. There's smudged black around his eyes, and the remnants of black paint over the skin of his chest, and I treat myself to look at him for a long few moments - until I realise what woke me up.   
  
The banging comes hard on the door, and Ange is getting increasingly more pissed.   
  
"It's six AM! Get your arses onto the bloody coach!"    
  
I hear Rocky behind her, trying to reason with her in a voice that sounds three parts hungover, and one part resigned, and I smile amusedly, curling my arm around Jim's waist as he shuffles onto his stomach in his sleep. He can sleep through fucking anything, it seems, which I suppose is probably a good thing for touring.

 

 

I'm planning to give it a few more minutes before I get up and make myself decent, but unexpectedly, Ange bursts through the door, rubbing her arm after shoulder barging the damn thing.   
"..Fuck-" I grunt, automatically tugging the throw a little more over myself and flushing beetroot at her expression, which fizzles from anger to unguarded shock as she stands, hand on the doorknob. Rocky glances in, swears and then laughs, walking straight back out again.

"Oh my God," Ange says after a moment, but it's more in disgusted resignation than shock, and I flash her a grin with a half shrug, letting the throw fall to my hips. She runs her hands through her hair, as if trying to regain some kind of control over the situation, and opens her mouth, probably about to tell us to book up our fucking ideas and get on the damned coach. But I don't notice that the throw has fallen a little too far, exposing a certain sleeping rockstar's plush arse - and my initial, scratched into the skin. I follow Ange's gaze, and her eyes are hard again, before she gives me a look that I can only describe as raging.

"What the fuck.." She begins, walking over as I drag the throw back over to cover him, and jabbing a finger at his behind. "..is that?"

I stretch, and run a hand through my hair, my words amused and flat. 

"That'd be Jim's arse, Ange."

She grimaces at me, her tongue in her cheek for a moment as she seems to decide against yelling at me. I figure that she's probably hungover too, the amount she was drinking last night. When she speaks, it's low and dangerous, though the words are resigned.

"And if the fucking  _press_  see something like that? You two, carving into each other like fucking.. animals?"

 

I roll my eyes, and run my fingers over my own carving, the 'M' much more likely to scar than his 'S'.

"Then I figure you've got a bigger problem, if the paparazzi are managing to photograph his arse."

"This isn't _funny_."

"Pretty funny from where I'm sitting."

Jim lifts his head, an eyebrow arched as he looks over at Ange, his hair mussed over his forehead, and his voice a rough morning drawl. It's fucking beautiful.  
"Are you two finished talking about my arse?"

Ange throws up her hands, and grits her teeth as she grabs half of Jim's show clothes from the floor and the rail, folding them into her arms. 

"You've got five minutes to get on the coach." She warns, pouting as she marches from the room and slams the door. I can hear her yelling at Rocky down the hall, and he laughs at her. I run a hand through Jim's hair, and he blinks lazily at me, his gaze reproving though his words are that same low, relaxed growl. 

"Why the hell are we awake?"

 

\--

 

 

Twenty five minutes later and we're lying on the coach, Jim and I taking up the whole of one of the semi-circle sofas. He's leaning back against my chest, my legs bent around his, and we pick at a rather soggy box of toast that Rocky's bought back from some cafe somewhere. I don't mind this. The 'secret' is out, yeah, but I quite like it. Ange shoots us disgusted looks every now and then, but Rocky seems to find it hilarious, even Steve the driver peeking back at one of the service stations en route to Manchester. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and I smirk at him, Jim catching the exchange and reaching back to poke me hard in the stomach.

"What?" I ask, incredulously amused, and he rolls his eyes, gesturing at me with the crust of a piece of toast.

"You. All smug. Like you've _ensnared_  me." He drawls, and I grin with a shrug. 

"Isn't that what happened?" I tip my head back against the seat. "Caught myself a Magpie."

He makes a sound of disgust in his throat, and then decides; "You need a stage name."

"I'm not going on stage."

"Tiger." 

I give a huff of laughter, and raise one eyebrow. "Because I'm strong and vicious?"

 

"Vicious?" He scoffs, and I drag a very purposeful thumb over the cut line of his lip. He bats away my hand. "No. Because you seem to think that you're the king of this jungle."

"Oh, do I?"

"You do. And you're very, _very_  wrong, my darling."

I laugh at that, and he leans back, hands slipping beneath my t shirt to ghost over the scratches that he's left in my skin from last night - that no doubt, didn't escape Ange's attention this morning. If anyone's the damn jungle cat here, it's him. On the opposite sofa, Ange tuts at us, and reaches into her bag, slapping down something heavy in front of us. It's a pointed move, one that tells us that she's sick of our coupling already, but I just smirk as Jim sits up, rifling through the fan mail.

"Oh, brilliant.." I muse, and roll my eyes. "More teenagers telling you how fucking amazing you are.."

"They have good taste." Jim answers, though his words are a little tight, and I know what he's looking for. "Where are these from?" He asks Ange, and she doesn't answer him for a few seconds, tapping away distractedly on her phone. Rocky emerges from the bathroom in his towel, and snorts at the sight of us laying like we are, before heading up to the beds after snatching a piece of toast.

 

"..London." She says at last, batting the topic away with a hand. "O2 sent them through to Sheffield.. forgot to give them to you.."

Jim leafs through the pink and red envelopes, the ones covered in glitter or with his name in artful calligraphy on the front. The black envelope drops onto the table, a white pen marking in simple letters on the front; ' _The Magpie_ ', with the printed London address beneath it. We both stare at it for a few seconds, and I feel that same faint nausea in my stomach. He passes it to me with unease in his expression, and I fold it, slipping it into my pocket. We can't look at it now. 

 

\--

 

When we reach Manchester, the set lorries have already gone to the arena, though Steve drives us to another studio, Jim due in for a photoshoot with a magazine. Ange tells us that they've arranged it specially, that the London based publication has set up a studio here so not to interfere with Jim's tour - and that there's no way out of it. The rest of the journey has been quieter, our bliss dulled by the knowledge of another letter, burning a fucking hole in my pocket. We shower and change, Jim eyeliner free but donning his leather trousers and a long jumper, the air turning frosty. I carefully transfer the letter from trousers to trousers, resisting the urge to tear it open, and then force myself back into bodyguard mode, feeling even more protective - and a damn sight more paranoid - given the events of last night.

 

Apparently the magazine has been publicising this to fucking death, because the fans that converge on the coach when we appear are the fucking rabid, obsessive type, and there must be over a hundred of them, all shoving forwards to try and get to Jim. He dons the dark sunglasses again, sleeves of his jumper pushed up to his forearms as he laughs and waves, sauntering through the crowd to try and reach the doors of the studio. Ange and Rocky, as always, have ploughed ahead. Jesus Christ, I think, as I'm jabbed with the corners of magazines and CDs, beaten with elbows and blinded from camera flashes. It'd be easier to just lift him fucking princess style and walk through the crowd, but I figure it might dent his reputation. Dutifully, I guide him through the throngs of screaming fans, my arms out, not afraid to push back when they get too close. 

 

"They certainly love you!"  
The announcement is nasal and amused, and I close the doors behind us at last, Ange and Rocky standing with a very skinny, older woman with a luminous purple dress, and heels so high that she's almost taller than me. 

"They're bloody pests, is what they are.." I mutter, rubbing a slightly bloodied graze on my arm from the wall, a consequence of the surging crowd. Jim takes off his sunglasses, and flashes the woman one of those simpering smiles, holding out a hand.

 

"Mandy Manners," She introduces herself, shaking the proffered hand, and Jim nods. Her name is fucking ridiculous, I think, as she continues, releasing his hand and clasping her own together. "And of course, I know who you are!" She slips an arm around his shoulders, and I see him stiffen slightly, glancing in my direction before she's guiding him to the lifts, the three of us left to follow behind. She's talking to him about the outfit they have prepared for him, but I don't think he could care less. I'm zoning out myself, snatches of 'leather', 'oil' and 'fur' reaching me occasionally. We reach the top floor and when she herds him away, I immediately make to follow, but Mandy Manners puts a hand on my shoulder and pushes me back with a bark of haughty laughter.

 

"You don't need to follow him to his dressing room, surely! Go and wait on set. Go on. Ask Eddie to find you a coffee."

I scowl, but Rocky loops an arm around my shoulders and pulls me with him. I already don't fucking like her.

 

\--

 

By the time we've got coffee and are sat beside their set - the backdrop of a dark, stormy sky, black feathers littering the floor, Jim is already being guided back out, presumably ready. I raise my eyebrows. I was under the impression that this was some sort of fashion magazine, yet apart from a rather more expensive pair of leather trousers that dip low on his hips, and a pair of unlaced black boots, he's not wearing anything. I think they've even fucking oiled up his chest. His hair is characteristically messy, eyes ringed darker than usual, and I wonder if they've brushed something over his stubble, because even that looks more pronounced. He looks good, yeah, but that's not fashion. That's just Jim.

 

The photographer positions him in front of the backdrop, and they give him various things to hold - first a handful of feathers, then a microphone, or a broken guitar. The sight seems to remind Ange of something, and she begins bickering with Rocky about that improvised song last night, the memory making me smile.

 

My eyes find Jim, and he's got one boot propped on a stack of black, painted crates - much higher than I'd get my leg, I note. Flexible bastard. His chin is tipped up, and he meets the camera with dark eyes, toned chest turned towards the lens. Well, he's a professional, I have to hand it to him. I don't think I'd ever get bored of watching this, but my trousers are becoming uncomfortably tight, and I take a walk around the set to distract myself. I take out the letter and I open it, just wanting to see how bad the situation is. Truth be told, I'm panicking that it'll be a fucking picture of that dead man, and then we're in trouble. But it's not. It's another greyscale picture, this time of the young girl - the barmaid from the first night, smiling as she sits with friends, though their faces have been scratched away. I glance up to make sure no eyes are on me, before flicking my gaze down to the red lettering. 

' _Nice choice._ ', it says, and I grimace, tucking the photograph away and shoving the envelope back down into my pocket. We still don't know that they know about the killings. It's a long shot that this is just about Jim's conquests, but I won't jump the gun.  

 

\--

 

It's still unsettling, and I decide against Jim's pleading, to try and speak to Rocky. I finish my coffee and walk back over, he and Ange sitting in a glowering silence, both watching Jim, now on his knees with his muscled arms up and around his face, eyes still fixing tauntingly on the camera.   
"..Rocky," I begin, about to ask him for a word in private, but his phone rings, and he glances at me apologetically before answering it. I sigh, and sit down in the chair that he vacates. Maybe I shouldn't tell him anyway. Jim really doesn't want me to, even if his reasons are shit. Even if the threat would mean Rocky stopped him from killing.. I'm not planning on letting him go fucking murder crazy, anyway. And maybe he'd even know what to do.

 

Ange interrupts my thoughts, leaning back in her chair to nudge me with the toe of her shoe, and I glance over, raising an eyebrow.

"How are you with parents?" She asks, a half amused glint in her eye that sings 'revenge'. 

 

I frown. "..What's happening?" I ask flatly, not planning on answering that. I was shit with my own parents, and I don't imagine I'd be particularly great with anyone else's. I don't like pandering to other people..Jim excluded.

"I had a call." She informs me, almost gleefully. "And his dad is coming tonight. First time he's seen the show, I think."

Oh, great, I think a little grimly, and roll my eyes, turning back to look at Jim. He cocks his head at me rather covertly as he sips his water, and I nod, muttering something noncommittal to Ange and then walking to join him in a corner of the studio, his expression uneasy. 

"You looked at it?" He asks, gesturing to my pocket, and I nod, taking out the crumpled black envelope and passing it over. I watch him as he opens it, watch his lips purse into a flat line as he reads the red lettering and mutters an irritated "..fuck."

"Yeah." I say, and sigh, folding my arms across my chest as I lean against the wall. "But we don't know what they know. Don't go jumping to conclusions."

He shakes his head, and goes to run a hand across his eyes, but I catch it before he does so, and wink at him, the hint of a smile on my lips. "Don't ruin your make up."

He grimaces. "This is such a waste of _time_." He drawls, glancing back at his set. I take the envelope back, and slip it into my pocket.

"Maybe." I agree, my gaze finding Mandy Manners as she looks at us, snake eyes already eager for Jim to return. "..But you know. And.. tonight might be.. interesting." I frown, wondering how the hell we're going to cope with this. Is he really alright to see people? To see family, for fuck sake, when he's on a high?

"..Will it?" He asks, misinterpreting my meaning and arching an eyebrow, beginnings of a smug smile beginning on his lips.

"Your father's coming to the show." I reveal a little flatly, unable to keep the slight grimace from my face. I'm bemused as the colour seems to drain from Jim's features, and he blinks at me a few times, a slight shock in his expression.

"What do you mean?" He asks slowly, and I nod towards Ange, a crinkle forming between my brows.

"Ange says your dad's coming to the show tonight." I say again a little more carefully, thinking that the words are pretty self explanatory.  

 

Jim frowns, his gaze still perturbed and fixed on mine, though he takes a half step closer to speak, his words quietly concerned.

"..I killed my father when I was seventeen, Sebastian.. "

 

I blink at that, having been expecting a range of things - but certainly not that confession. Jesus.. Something cold finds its way into my stomach, and Jim continues, his words dropping to an uneasy whisper.

 

"So.. so who the hell is coming to my show?"

 

\--

 


	14. Beat the Crowd

Before we can even talk about it, Mandy Manners is calling Jim back to the shoot, and I have to squeeze his hand a few times for any fucking colour to come back into his face. I walk back over to Rocky and Ange, Rocky having finished his call and turning to me to ask what I wanted. I just shake my head. Jesus Christ, if there are things that even he doesn't know..

 

 

We finish the set, and Ange barely allows Jim time to change back into something a little more modest - though Mandy Manners is determined that he should keep the trousers. Hey, I'm not complaining. She's harassing us all the way down to the door with offers of coffee and lunch, and _oh, you must come back and do another shoot!_ Jim is distracted, and barely remembers to give her that simpering smile. He's back in his jumper, and reaches to me for his sunglasses, which I pass over wordlessly. He slips them on and follows after Ange and Rocky, a sense of dread in my stomach at the fucking crowd of fans again. I can see them readying themselves with their damn CDs and posters.

 

It takes us a whole ten minutes to get the five metres to the coach, and I'm absolutely furious by the time we do. He's had to stop and sign things for almost every fucker there just to get us through, laughing and winking like some fucking display animal, though I can see that he's tired and really not fucking in the mood. Who knows if this 'father' is the same person that's sending the letters? Or another fucking thing altogether? Some of the fans start crying when they meet Jim, others shaking as they hold out their items, and he barely bats an eye at them. He must be used to it. That kind of devotion just isn't healthy.

 

When we finally get onto the coach, Ange and Rocky are sitting with coffees and Rocky looks pointedly at his watch, which makes my blood boil. "Thanks for the help." I snap, and Jim barely acknowledges them, just climbing the ladder wearily. I follow him after shaking my head at the pair, the two of them looking at each other incredulously, and Ange even opening her mouth to argue.  
"Save it." I call, and follow Jim down the narrow pathway, the both of us crawling until we reach our respective mattresses.

 

\--

 

"Are you as knackered as I am?" I ask him after a few long minutes, a peaceful silence engulfing us. He's managed to peel himself out of those leather trousers, and lays just in his black boxer shorts and long jumper, looking rather comfortable. I tug off my own jeans, and push him over, ignoring the grumbled curses as he presses himself against the wall, making space for me to curl my arm around his waist.

 

"I'm even more tired than you are." He informs me, already leaning into the pillow with his eyes closed. I run my fingers down his cheek, and he doesn't seem to notice - either that, or he doesn't mind. "I had to play a show last night. And work the camera." He opens his eyes to glare at me. "And I  _ache_."

 

"And you've got another show tonight." I remind, fingers running lightly through his hair, and he groans, the sound doing shameful things to me. "But this is the third last." I add, "Tonight and tomorrow, and then back to London for your finale. You'll miss it when it's gone."

"You want a bet?" Jim drawls from his pillow, though his hand has come to rest at my hips, curling into the fabric of my boxers, and I can't seem to think about anything else. He continues. "Soon as this is over, I get a couple months, then they'll stick me on the next one.

"They?"

Jim slips his hand beneath the elastic, and I breathe in, not sure if he's just teasing me. "Mm.." He says. "..The label. Ange gets her orders from the label."

 

"Right." I say, but the word is a tad tight, his hand creeping even closer to my cock. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, but I have to ask. Just have to know. "..Did you really kill your dad?"

His hand freezes, but he doesn't open his eyes, and after a moment his tongue snakes out to dab thoughtfully at his lip. Finally, he sighs, and admits in a rather careless tone; "..Yes. Yes, I did."

I frown, and move closer, my fingers skimming over his arm. His muscles tense, and I know that he's not quite as relaxed about this as he wants to seem. "..He knock you around?" I ask, and he shrugs. He purses his lips into a flat line, and there's my answer.

"..And your Ma?" I add, voice a little softer, and he shrugs again, his eyes still closed, though his adams apple bobs as he swallows. It surprises me, how easily I can read him. I know he's going to fucking hate it, and it's hardly something I normally do, but I slip my arm further around his waist, and pull him to me, ignoring his sound of protest. I hold him against me, and he's stiff and unyielding for a few long minutes, but I don't give in. I keep him there, fingers stroking lightly over his back - and at last, he curls an arm around me in turn, burying his face in my shoulder. I'm sure we'll never talk about this again. No wonder he clams up about his childhood.

 

After a few more minutes of this, he pulls back and presses his mouth to mine, and its a softer kiss than I ever expected from Jim. And yet, I feel the cold press of a blade against the skin of my stomach, beneath my t shirt. A little alarmed, I pull back, glancing down, but he doesn't sink the knife into my skin. He's just ghosting it over me, as uneasy as the feeling is.

 

"If you were anyone else." He says simply, leaning in to murmur the words against my mouth, and I catch his meaning. He doesn't talk to anyone about this. And if he'd just revealed his past to anyone else, they'd be dead as a dodo. I nod, and blade still pressed against my skin, lean in to kiss him again. He falls asleep against me, my arms curled around that jumper, his knees to his chest and the knife forgotten on the floor.

 

I feel quite flattered.

 

\--

 

 

Rocky wakes us up hours later, grimacing at the sight of us in our pants, though I decide that he's got a nerve - he was the one sauntering around in his towel, just this morning.   
"They're getting you some food at the arena, but it's show time in an hour and a half. Get cracking."

Jesus Christ, we've slept for four or five hours, I think as I turn to Jim, the Magpie still curled against me, his eyes closed and hair mussed. He's pulled the sleeves of his jumper right down over his fingers, and it's a comical contrast - the baggy, fluffy material riding up to reveal the strong muscle of his legs, no doubt a consequence of all those bloody gymnastics. Rocky heads back downstairs, and we're going to have to rush - I imagine the set's already there for us, and they must have fobbed off a sound check somehow. Maybe to make sure that Jim's rested enough to perform tonight. He doesn't exactly need to rehearse.

 

I slide a hand into his hair and lean in, pressing kisses to the skin of his neck until he wakes up with a grumble, though leans into my attentions. After a few minutes, we're both fairly up for it, but I have to frown at him, leaning our foreheads together.  
"..Hour and a half until showtime."  
"..Fucking hell." He replies, more resignedly than irritably, and I kiss him on the mouth, enjoying the hands that twine in my hair.

"Tonight." I promise, and he throws himself back into the mattress with a melodramatic sigh and a " _Fine._ " 

 

We have to rush to get ready, both of us climbing back into our clothes from earlier in the day, Jim half bouncing on the mattress to get back into those leather trousers, and I snort, more than amused at the effort. Ange calls for us again, and announces that they're going over to meet the stage manager, and I call back an "..Ok-", muffled slightly by Jim's mouth, kissing me rather roughly as I pull on my shoes. 

"Ready?" I ask, almost as soon as the coach door closes, and he is, sunglasses hanging from his mouth and hair artfully mussed, his jumper not looking like it's been slept in. We climb awkwardly down the ladder, and he saunters to the door.

"After me." He murmurs under his breath, and I roll my eyes - though my amusement dies on my face as we step outside. It's the biggest crowd we've seen so far - Mandy Manners' studio included, and it strikes an irritated dread into my stomach, especially when the roar goes up, and they surge towards Jim. I swear, and he stalks forwards, unperturbed. Steve has come out from the coach, and is trying to help us, though he's not really allowed to leave the vehicle. 

 

There are fucking people everywhere, and the noise is absolutely incredible, screaming and yelling and crying, and Jim laughing in his same smug, easy chuckle, though I'm not sure even he's prepared for this many fans.   
"No signings!" I call, and a ripple of disappointment seems to run through the lot of them, and they press forwards again, hoping that they'll be the one exception. I'm practically running circles around Jim, forcing people away from him from every angle, and Steve finally hangs back reluctantly, not able to stray any further from the coach. They converge upon us, and I swear as a jagged CD case drags across my arm, and a mother and daughter try and push past me into Jim. I see him wince and glance around,  aware thar somebody's fucking marred him with one of their pens, or fucking cases, and it makes me angry. I'm supposed to be protecting him.

"Clear the way!" I shout, but it doesn't seem to make a blind bit of difference. Even Jim is uncomfortable now, no longer smiling at the crushing crowd, and being knocked this way and that as more throw themselves into him, desperate for attention. A hand curls around his arm, a body into his side, and he meets my eye. The calls of his name, and his stage name, surround us, and my ears begin to ring. I can't fucking do this - we're stuck smack bang in the centre of the crowd, and it only seems to be getting bigger, and closer around us.

 

"Right." I mutter, and bend down, one of my arms finding the crook of Jim's legs, and the other slipping around his back, lifting him first into my arms and then over my shoulder in a glorified fireman's lift. He swears, hair hanging over his forehead as he looks around behind me, hands coming to rest on my back as he tries to lift himself back up, laughing, a little shocked in spite of himself. We begin to move through the crowd properly, still harassed by the hands forcing things at us, or people blocking our path, but I push them aside and march ahead, Jim calling rather amusedly over my shoulder as he props an elbow on my back. "Ange is going to kill you."  
Yeah, I know. The press photos.. It hardly looks platonic, but I couldn't care less. Better than him showing up to the arena, fucking damaged.

 

The stage manager throws open the door for us and sure enough, Ange and Rocky are waiting behind him, both of them rather shocked, though Rocky bursts out laughing. They herd us inside, and I plant Jim on his feet, his smile smug and relieved, though he rubs at his side where he was jabbed. I catalogue my own injuries - grazes and sensitivities that are sure to be yellowing bruises by the end of the damn day.

"You're gonna get barriers up by the time we leave." I threaten the stage manager, and he swallows, making a note on his clipboard with a hurried nod. "Where's the dressing room?" I demand just as roughly, and he points down the hall, saying that he'll show us, but I'm tired of waiting for other people to get fucking things done. I go to march away, but Ange takes Jim's arm, and begins telling him in a firm tone about changes to the show's setlist tonight, about keeping it fresh, and just going with the intros that come on, as he hasn't done sound check. I tap my foot impatiently, and Jim rolls his eyes with an uninterested half smile, the both of us knowing what this is about. That impromptu song, last night. I'm pursing my lips against a grin at the memory, and Ange finally, reluctantly lets us go.

 

Jim curls his fingers around my own as we walk, and I raise my eyebrows, not used to such a gesture. It's nice, don't get me wrong, but..  
I turn to look at him, a rather shy smile on my lips but it fades almost immediately. His own expression is a little uneasy, a frown beginning on his lips, and when I tighten my hand on his own, I realise that it's damp and cold. 

"Jim?" I say quietly, but he shakes his head, a bemused look on his face as I let us into the new dressing room - bigger than the two others we've had. I close the door behind him, and he starts laughing, a quiet, breathless sound that makes me uneasy. I release his hand and notice immediately that he's shaking, that the clammy sheen has reached the skin of his face and chest, and his eyes are slightly unfocused, blinking slowly at me as he smiles.

"Jim?" I repeat, the word firm and concerned as I step closer, my hands on his shoulders. If I didn't know better.. If.. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was on a high. "..What's wrong? What is it?"

"My, my.." He murmurs, and widens his eyes, blinking a few times and shaking his head. He blows out a long breath, and fixes me with as focused a gaze as he can manage. "Do not.. panic."

"Panic? Why would I panic?" I ask, my words fast, and unmistakably worried. It's come on so suddenly. "..What are you doing? Jim, for God's sake.."

His hand slips to my cheek, and he gives me a lopsided smile, his words both resigned and amused.

 

"My love.. I think I've been drugged.."

 

\--

 


	15. As A Kite

"Drugged?" I repeat, my voice hollow and disbelieving. "How the fuck..?"   
  
"I did feel a sharp scratch." Jim murmurs, sliding down to sit on a plush sofa, and I fall with him, sitting down beside him with an expression that's two parts anger and one part horror. I saw him fucking wince, saw them surround him. I just put it down to an elbow in the ribs, or a CD case. Not a fucking syringe. Jesus Christ.  
  
"How are you so calm?" I ask exasperatedly, though I suppose the answer should be obvious. But if I knew I'd been drugged, I'd be freaking the fuck out. Of course, he's calm as the rolling tide.  
  
"I've had it before." He answers simply, and drapes his legs across my lap, his fingers toying with the hem of his jumper. "I'm quite enjoying it, actually." He gives a slow, giddy, breathless little laugh and I swallow, uncomfortable with this whole fucking thing. He's been under my protection, and he's been hurt. Fucking.. injected with god knows what. Someone got to him. I feel a pang of self-loathing, and curl my hands into fists.   
  
"What is it? What drug?" I ask firmly, and he slowly flaps out his hands, giving an exaggerated shrug. I close my eyes, and put my hands to my face, trying to fucking come to terms with this. There's no way he can go on stage. Do I take him to hospital? 

 

 

I glance at him out of the corner of one eye, and he's watching me amusedly. He'd never fucking go to hospital.

"Who'd sabotage a gig that they were about to see?" I mutter, leaning back heavily and kicking out at the floor. 

"Mm.. I think I've rather built up a bit of a resistance.." He drawls, moving his fingers in the air beside him, like he's constructing an orchestra. His words are a little dazed, but he's relaxed, enjoying it. "..I daresay it should have hit me harder than this.."

"There's no way you can go on like this." I say flatly, shaking my head. I turn to him, looking into his eyes, his pupils blown. "We should tell Ange and Rocky. Jesus Christ, Jim.."

"I'm going on." He says simply. I raise my eyebrows, my lips pursed, but a thought hits me. If some fucker was trying to incapacitate him, then they'd want him off stage. For some reason, they'd want him high as a kite, and put to bed. Left alone, maybe. It stabs me, a cold feeling low in my stomach. Does somebody want to hurt him? To really hurt him? 

 

I don't share this thought with Jim, but merely nod. "Yeah.." I say. "Yeah, you should. If you can."   If they want him alone, and not on stage, then we'll have him do the opposite. But I'll watch him like a hawk.

He half rolls off the sofa, and puts his hands to the nape of his neck, pulling off the jumper. He swaggers over to the clothes rail, and shakes the plastic covering from the feathered vest, shrugging it on and running his hands slowly through his hair. 

 

I can already hear the bustling noise outside the door, everyone readying for the show. I'm watching Jim closely, looking for any sign that he's getting worse, when the knock comes on the door. The stage manager doesn't wait, merely walks straight in and sets down a tray of burgers, and then leaves again, talking on his headset the entire time. 

"Eat." I order, and Jim walks over, rolling his eyes at me and taking a huge bite out of one of them, and then grinning at me with fucking hamster cheeks. I close my eyes and mutter a quiet "..Fucking Christ.." but it's a little more amused. I don't think he's in any danger. It's just like he's drunk, though I'm still pissed at myself, that someone was able to get past me. I'm not gonna risk that again. Barriers, or we're staying on the coach, next time. 

 

I make him sit down for ten minutes to finish the burger, hoping that it'll help somehow, though I've never dealt with this before. He polishes off two, and then stands, reaching for his eyeliner pencil and handing it to me. 

"I can't let Ange do it." He tells me, tilting his head a little playfully. I arch an eyebrow. "She'll see. She'll think I've taken something."

"Yeah, well you have."

"Not voluntarily, Sebby."

I grimace at him, and take the pencil, my fingers coming up to grasp his chin a little more forcefully than necessary.

"Don't call me that. Seb, or Sebastian, feathers."

I begin to line one of his eyes, and he pouts at me, before leaning in closer, his eyes on my mouth, and his words dropping to that sultry growl.   
"Don't be like that, Sebby.." 

I purse my lips, and tighten my grasp on his chin, finishing one eye and starting on the next. He continues, and I'm having to lean back, away from his mouth to finish the job.  
"..What are you going to do about it?" I cap the lid on the pencil, and toss it back onto the dressing table. ".. _Sebby_?"

  
The moment it leaves my fingers, he's kissing me, his mouth rough and needing, his hands hard on my chest and pushing me back against the wall. I grunt when my shoulders crash against the brick, and his fingers twine tightly into my hair, just as his call goes out over the speaker system.

"Jim-" I try, but he just kisses me harder, grinding up against me with a force that has my hands flying to his arse, to keep him there, my lips parting for his tongue. But it's wrong, it's the wrong time, and I know it. He's not supposed to be on the high now - I need to keep this for later, to stop him from hurting someone, but Jesus, his tongue in my mouth..

 

The loud knocks come on the door, and I have a sense of de ja vu, aware that Ange could probably barge her way in here too. It seems like she doesn't need to - I just manage to push Jim away when the stage manager lets himself in again, merely standing against the open door and waiting for Jim to follow him out.

 

The Magpie stands, breathing hard, his pupils blown and the leather across the front of his trousers just a tad too tight. I run my hands through my hair and swallow, trying to meet his eyes.  
"Jim." I say, and Ange appears at the door, gesturing at her watch. "Jim," I say again, and he finally looks at me, blinking a few times.

"Time." I say, and cock my head at the door. No questions asked, he follows after the stage manager, and I'm right behind him. Jesus Christ, I think, as Rocky joins me and Ange hurries ahead, the back of the stage buzzing with anticipation, and the sound of the raucous crowd. This could be a fucking train wreck.

 

\--

 

 

But you know what? It isn't.

 

I watch from the side of the stage, pacing and biting at my thumbnail like a nervous fucking parent. Jim is even more phenomenal than normal, and I sense that the drug reaches its peak in the second half. He thrashes and writhes on the stage, throws himself from the set, rocks his hips and grinds against the props. His voice is heaven, and his songs are raggedly sensual, even the stage hands standing to watch him, in awe. 

 

I'm trying to think as I watch. To try and figure out who could have fucking done this. Is it connected to the letters? To this 'father'? Or is it just a rabid fan, in some misguided fucking attempt to have an effect on Jim's life, even if it's detrimental? Whoever it is, I hope they're watching him. He's truly fucking breathtaking out there. He drags the black paint across his chest, holding onto that one note, and sinking down onto his knees, the sight sending a heat into my stomach - and I've seen it before.

 

He ends up doing three encores, the crowd getting wilder with each one, and even when he finally leaves the stage - Ange and Rocky grabbing a paint-slicked arm apiece to keep him from going back on - they chant his name.

_Magpie, Magpie, Magpie._

He's laughing, and the sound is breathless and exultant as I turn to him, his eyes blacker than I've ever seen them. His hair is wild, a streak of glittering black paint skimming over his cheek and a corner of his mouth. He's surrounded by the stage hands, by congratulations and admiration, but I can see him trying to focus, see the hands coming to fist in his hair before his gaze fixes, laser sharp, on me. I stand at the side of the stage, waiting for a gap to try and push through the crowd to get to him, but that look has me freezing where I stand.

 

His hands are rough and brutal as he forces people out of the way, knocking a stagehand onto the floor in his eagerness to get to me. It's actually fucking scary, I think, and Ange and Rocky are looking at each other, before Rocky paces over to me, concern on his features. "..Seb? What the fuck-"

"Not now." I say flatly, and I'm walking, keeping my eyes on Jim's, leading him away from other people, and back to the dressing room. My heart is beginning to beat madly in my chest, and for once, I'm uncertain if it'll even be enough. If I'll be able to keep him from killing. This is like a fucking double high. Well, I'll take it. I'll take anything he gives me, if it stops him taking a life. His body is tense, muscles stark under the lights and the glistening paint, and his eyes are wild and unblinking, his breathing ragged as he follows me, every person backstage turning to watch. 

 

"Sir.. Sir-"  
The stage manager is tugging at my arm as we reach the dressing room, trying urgently to get my attention, but I physically push him away, Jim's eyes settling on him for just a moment before flicking back to me. I fumble for the door handle, but he crashes into me, pushing me back harshly and sending me staggering backwards into the room. He slams the door behind us, and then we both freeze as I realise what the stage manager was trying to tell me. The voice begins, slow and amused, and we both turn to look at the source.

"Well, well. It's about time.."

 

The man is older than us both, maybe sixty or sixty five, but immaculately dressed. He has a shark's smile, and twinkling eyes, grey hair folded neatly over his head, and his legs crossed in his expensive white suit. He sits in a chair in the corner, and my eyes swivel to Jim, fists clenched and my body tense, not sure what to do.

"De Motte.."

The name slips from Jim's lips after a moment, and he gazes with uncertainty at the old man, though I think I see something unhappy in his expression. The man opens out his hands, as if greeting him as a friend.

"The very same. How long has it been, boy?" He booms, and Jim blinks a few times, falling back against the door as De Motte rises out of the chair, and takes a step towards me.

"You stay the fuck away from me." He mutters, seemingly trying to take control of his high as he holds out a hand, and I'm immediately on the defensive, stepping in front of him.

De Motte smiles, a twinkling, dangerous smile that I find a little unnerving. He doesn't seem scared of me, and seems even more pleased at Jim's reaction, though he gives a mock frown.

"Oh, come now." He says, and his eyes flick rather disinterestedly to me. "No need for this heavy, is there, James? Can't we talk as men?"

"You're no man." Jim spits, and his hands are back in his hair, struggling to gain control of himself and his adrenaline. I grit my teeth, and a muscle pulses in my jaw.

 

"Who is this fucker, Jim?" I ask at long last, not taking my eyes off him, and he answers before Jim can, folding his arms across his chest.

"James." He begins disapprovingly, "You haven't told your friend about me? That's very rude." He waggles a finger at the cowering rockstar, and I take a step forward. He doesn't take one back, doesn't even blink, and it's disconcerting. "We'll have to have a word about your manners."

"He's my.. first.. manager.." Jim says disgustedly at last, and when I risk a glance back, his fingers are closed tightly around his own arm, squeezing deep marks into the skin. I wince at the sight. It's an attempt to calm himself. If I could just get this fucker out of here, I could be helping him.

"Oh, but he's like a son to me." De Motte croons, and tilts his head to look at Jim, eyes twinkling. "Wouldn't you say so, James? Especially after what happened to your own father. So.. tragic." He gives a long sigh, and Jim is shaking his head. That explains it, then. His 'father'.

 

"He knows." He says, words a mutter, and I can hear the anguish in his voice. Anger burns in my chest. "You can't.. threaten me with that. He knows everything."

"Oh, he  _does_?"

De Motte looks rather interested at that, and looks me up and down, as if trying to figure me out. "He must be very special, then."

" _He_  has a name." I say gruffly, and square my shoulders. "What the fuck do you want? I'm going to have to ask you-"

"To leave?"  De Motte gives another of those mock frowns, and shakes his head slowly.  "I'm afraid I won't be going anywhere."  He makes to step around me, and I counter his step, not letting him get a step closer to Jim. I don't like this fucker. I don't like him one bit.

"Jim." I begin coolly, meeting De Motte's gaze. "Would you like me to remove this smug bastard from the premises?"

He doesn't answer, and I glance back, an involuntary gasp catching in my throat as something drops into my stomach. There's blood dripping from his arm, that damned knife in his hand as he flicks cuts onto the skin, still desperately trying to regain control. I abandon the old prick, and turn to him, prying the knife away from his fingers despite his protests, and pulling him over to the sofa. That old bastard has just watched him do this to himself without saying a word, without letting me know, without trying to help.

 

He doesn't care. Jim doesn't like him. In fact, I think that he might actually scare Jim, and the thought makes me uneasy. I grab one of the t shirts hanging on the rail and tear off a strip, beginning to haphazardly bandage over the cuts, luckily not deep. I speak to Jim quietly as I do so, reassuring him that I'm going to get the fucker out of here, that we're going to go out and find him what he needs - not strictly true, of course, but I know it'll settle him. He leans his forehead against my shoulder, and the man steps closer, clapping his hands together with a rather resignedly pleased sigh.

"So here's what's going to happen, boys."

\--

 

"It won't work." Jim mumbles against my skin, his fingernails digging into his other arm, as much as I try to pry them off, in between my bandaging. "He's done this before. I should have known.. my 'father'.."

I glare at the fucker, still waiting patiently to tell us 'what's going to happen.' He smiles at me, and continues.

"You're going to come with me, James. You'll come with me, and you'll come back to the label." His words are calm, sure of himself, and I want to tear his head from his shoulders. I barely know who he is, or what he does. But he upsets Jim, and I'll fucking kill for him if I have to. The fucker continues. "You'll sing what we tell you to sing, and you'll be a good boy."

I pry Jim's fingernails from his arm again, and murmur a quiet; "..Just say the word, kitten." He nods, but continues to listen. I've never used a pet name before. I've never needed to. He's always been strong, a cocky little shit that I love to irritate, love to distract. This is different. He's desperately losing control, upset by this fucker, and curling against me like I'm his only hope. It fucking breaks my heart.

 

"And if you don't.." De Motte continues, voice sickly sweet. "If you don't, then I'll take you apart. I have enough evidence of your father's.. unfortunate.. death to put you in prison for years, James." He folds his hands across his stomach, the words drawling and taunting. "..The poor councilman.. shot down in his own home, with his own gun.. His wife and children, finding him hours later.. the eldest child, covered in his blood.." He winks at Jim. "You know, I still have a photograph of you at my house, sobbing your little heart out. Still crimson to the wrist."

He sighs,looking heavenward as if it's a happy memory, and I have to swallow back my revulsion.  _Just say the word, Jim_ , I think. _Just say the word._

Jim doesn't say anything for a few long moments, his fingers twining tightly in the fabric of my t shirt. I can feel his pulse against my skin, ticking fast, beating like a trapped bird. 

"..Who.. who have you told?" He whispers, and De Motte taps the breast pocket of his suit. 

"Don't be silly, James." He drawls. "I have the only copies. But I'll go to the big boys if you won't come back to us willingly. The end of such a.. promising.. career.."

"You've been sending the photos." I spit at him, my voice a snarl. For a moment, De Motte blinks at me, bemused. 

"Excuse me?" He asks, and I narrow my eyes, wondering what the fuck he's playing at. He must have sent them. Unless.. Unless he only knows about Jim's father. He hasn't mentioned the other murders. But the drugging has to be him, at least. Maybe he thought he'd corner him when he retired to the coach, maybe take him easily. The thought makes me feel sick. Obviously he didn't count on me being here. Jim sits up, rubbing at blackened eyes.

"You came to get me." He says, and his voice is soft as he looks at the man. De Motte smiles, a sharklike grin as he tilts his head, opening his arms for Jim as I watch, a little surprised. And repulsed.

 

"..Jim?" I say quietly, confused and a bad taste in my mouth.

 

"I did." De Motte says, and gestures Jim over. Jim stands and lets himself be folded into the man's arms, still shirtless and slicking that white suit with black paint. They embrace awkwardly for a moment, Jim just held in his arms like a child, and I feel physical revulsion, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. This feels wrong. He's giving in to a threat. He's.. emotionally attached, somehow. What the hell is this? Does he need me? I can't.. I can't even fucking tell. I just feel sick. Jim says he's done this before. Is this what happens? He shows up, pulls Jim from his life, and carts him back off to his past?

 

Jim mumbles something against the material of De Motte's suit, and the man leans back a little with a pleasant "Mm? What was that, love?"

 

I feel a little nauseous at the 'love', and make to turn away and hide my grimace. I don't know what the fuck is happening, but I don't like it. He's threatening him with the knowledge of the murder of his own father. His abusive father.  I'm glad that I don't turn away. It happens in an instant.

 

Something glints in Jim's grasp as he slips his hand to his belt, and then his arm is in the air, De Motte barely having a moment to step back before the blade digs a sweeping canal in his chest, an arch of blood spraying up and out, splattering against the carpet. 

"I said," Jim repeats, his voice low and dark, shaking with the effort of keeping it calm. He turns the bloodied knife between his fingers, and turns his back disinterestedly as De Motte's body crumples to the floor, a thin stack of photographs in his other hand, slipped straight from the dead man's breast pocket.

"..You _really_  shouldn't have told me where the photos were."

 

 

\--

 


	16. Sweet and Sour

I'm watching, silent as I rise to my feet, the blood slowly pooling around De Motte on the floor and bubbling at his chest. It seeps over the white suit, and Jim saunters back over to me, reaching down to clean off his knife slowly on the thigh of my jeans.  
  
I hardly even notice, just blinking down at the dead man who claimed to be a father to him. Who was a part of his past, even if a part that he loathed. If Jim had gone to him for help as a teenager, he must have been some sort of comfort, at one time. He had me fooled with that embrace, just as much as he fooled the old man.   
  
"What-" I begin, my voice breathless with shock, but he interrupts me, his voice flat and firm.  
  
"I won't regret it, if that's what you mean."  
  
He's still barechested, bloodied bandages across the crease of his arm, the tied tails hanging against his stomach as he watches me, his gaze dark. The frenzied panic of only a few minutes ago.. the uncertainty as he curled against me, and his adrenaline rush.. all calmed. Satisfaction seems to seep into his expression, at the same rate that De Motte's blood does, into the carpet. In the space of a half hour, De Motte has entered our lives, threatened to change them, and then been viciously, efficiently removed from them.   
  
"..Don't go into shock." Jim says to me firmly, tucking away his knife and wrapping his bloodied fingers around my arms, and forcing me to look at him. We've switched roles. Only a couple of hours ago, it was me doing this. Trying to calm him. Making sure he was alright. I realise that I've only seen him kill twice before, and neither time was anyone that I'd spoken to. No one important. And certainly not on the floor of the fucking dressing room. Christ, this is a mess.  
  
"..Sebastian." Jim says again, and his fingernails dig into my arms. I blink at him, and clear my throat, nodding.  
  
"..Yeah." I say at last, nodding at him, and then glancing at De Motte. His eyes are open wide, staring in a kind of frozen shock up at the ceiling tiles. "..Yeah, he got what was coming to him."  
  
"I've wanted to do that for years.." Jim says, and his words are pleasant, as if we're talking about a ride on a fucking ferris wheel, or something. I just nod, biting down on the inside of my cheek for a long few moments. Jim's hands skim higher up my arms, and my own come to settle at his hips with numb resignation.

 

"We need to get Rocky." I say at last, and Jim presses his tongue against his bottom lip, in thought for a moment.

"..Yeah." He says at last, unperturbed. "..Bit of a mess."

I remember Lorna from the second night, remember that Rocky was bringing her straight to Jim's dressing room. I purse my lips, realising that it won't exactly be a difficult clean up. Even run of the mill, maybe. I feel a little fucking sick, I think. My eyes swivel back to Jim's, and he's watching me intently, those eyes dark and lazy. Relaxed. Satisfied. I wonder if I ever would have been able to bring him to this state after that intense a high. His fingers slide down my arms, slick with blood, and come to hold mine, and when he speaks, it's slow and careful, his words knowing.

"..You're reconsidering this." He says, and tilts his head slowly, mouth pressing into a resigned frown. "..Me."

"He was asking for it." I repeat a little flatly, meeting his gaze as best I can, but I feel swallowed by the intensity of his stare. It's simultaneously fucking arousing and terrifying.

 

"He's been using that same threat for years." Jim answers, wet fingers curling around mine. I nod, and he tugs me closer, pulling my arms around his waist. His words become a song, dragged out and playful. "It seems he chose.. the..  _wrong.. night.._ "

I try and force myself to relax, to pretend that there isn't a corpse a few feet away - a corpse that I couldn't prevent him from making. I know it's different. I know this man wasn't innocent, nor was it my fault. I was as taken in by the act as De Motte, and I never could have stopped him. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.

 

 I rest my face in his hair and close my eyes, inhaling that same smell. I think about him curling against my chest on the coach. About that jumper, soft beneath my hands as I hold him to me. I think about him kissing me in that damned alleyway, after confessing that he couldn't help himself, couldn't help inflicting pain. I don't think about the sleepy satisfaction on his face. Or that glint in his eye. Or the easy way he turned back to face me, cleaning his knife, before De Motte had even fallen. I don't think about how seeing him in control sent a warm shudder of want through my stomach.

 

"You think he sent the letters?" I ask resignedly. "..And drugged you?"

"I don't." Jim answers, his words the clearest I've heard them since we stepped inside after the press of the crowd, earlier in the evening. It sickens me to think that the killing clears his head, because I know that feeling. I remember it. 

 

But at least I was killing the enemy. Most of the time.

 

 

Jim continues, his fingers trailing over my lower back, beneath my t shirt, and likely leaving bloodied trails in their wake.   
"He would have mentioned the other killings, if he knew. More leverage. And he would have mocked me for the drug." He shakes his head, and then stands on his tiptoes, kissing me on the mouth. I know it's just my imagination - or maybe it's the smell of the stuff, slowly saturating the room - but he tastes of blood. I don't protest. I might even like it.

 

I don't answer him, and after a moment he slips his hand into my trouser pocket, taking out my phone. I stand with my arms around him silently, in the midst of the bloodied room, my fingers ghosting over his bandaged arm. That much, at least, was real. I remember my disgust at letting Jim walk over to him, to embrace him, to let De Motte have the power after all that panicking, all that cowering. I decide that at least, the alternative was better than that. Than him going back to him. Whatever that'd mean. 

 

"Rocky." Jim's voice is soft and confident. "It's me. Dressing room. Yes. I didn't fuck him."

 

I can't hear what Rocky replies, but frown at Jim's tone. It sounds almost amused - 'don't judge me, I have standards'. 

"I'll take Sebastian out of the window. We'll need jackets."

 

\--

 

We're back on the coach within an hour. 

 

Rocky came straight to the dressing room, marched in and slammed the door to assess the damage. His arms were heaped with coats, and he handed them to us, Jim half dragging one over me as I stood, leaden. He didn't even look surprised, just checked over Jim's arm, passed us some of the clothes for tomorrow's show, and cocked his head at the window. I'd have rather left via the door, but to brave all those fans again like that would have been suicide.  
"Where's Ange?" I asked him, and he frowned at me, like he sensed judgement.  
"I sent her to buy whiskey." He replied. "The good stuff. From a bar, on the other side of the city. She took Morley with her, think she likes him."  
I didn't even ask who Morley was, but Jim laughed, shaking his head as he tugged me towards the window.  
" _Another_ stage manager?"

 

\--

We ran across the grass, coats huddled around us, and Steve let us on, just nodding with a yawn before he went back to the front of the coach.

 

 Jim showers first, and I sit at the table, the jacket still lopsided on my shoulders as I stare down at the plastic, raging an internal battle. I know that Jim has a problem. And I know that the deaths aren't just a means to an end. He enjoys them, that much is obvious. The way he wiped the knife so nonchalantly on my jeans, proving a point. His cocky proclamation, seconds after slicing De Motte to pieces. And I've seen it before, too, even if I was too appalled to notice at the time. That exultant grin. Tipping his head back in the alleyway, that first night, and breathing in the cool air. 

 

He enjoys it. He loves it. And even if I can stop him, it won't be for long.

 

When he appears, I walk past him into the tiny bathroom, and treat myself to a long and hot shower. I let myself think about morality. Good and bad. What do I believe, what do I want? Who am I? What makes killing one person less terrible than another? What makes Jim's teenagers any better than the men I've slaughtered in combat? What makes De Motte any worse than.. than Dino? I wince just thinking the name, and focus on washing myself off. I must have been in there for a good half an hour.

 

When I finally emerge in my towel, Ange and Rocky are still nowhere to be seen, but Jim sits at the table, wearing a t shirt that I recognise as my own, and his boxer shorts. I raise an eyebrow and pad over barefoot to sit down beside him, trying to push my philosophical fucking debates from my head for a moment, and reach out, plucking at the material.  
"You stealing my clothes now, feathers?" I ask, and he shrugs, straightening the collar. It's too big for him by a couple of sizes, the V hanging halfway down his chest. He pushes a mug towards me and I take a sip, expecting a strong coffee.

 

Hot chocolate.

It's hot chocolate, and it nearly fucking does me in. I sit back heavily against the seat, pushing the mug away and pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes. Hot chocolate. Fucking hell. 

 

"..Sebastian?" He says after a moment, the word measured with an edge of concern.

 

He murders in cold blood.  _He drinks hot chocolate._  He writhes around on the stage, singing about sex.  _He wears my t shirts._ He's the best fuck I've ever had.  _He curls his knees up against his chest when he sleeps._  He carries a knife around with him. _He sings me fucking love songs._  


 

He's good and bad. Sweet as fucking sugar, and sour as a rotten apple in the same mouthful. He's everything I want, and everything I don't. A blurring of boundaries that I've been disciplined to guard. 

 

My eyes find his, and he's watching me with a curious gaze, one of the sleeves of my t shirt halfway off his shoulder. His lips are pursed into a concerned little pout, and I think I see the edge of something in his expression.

 

   _'If you were anyone else'_ , he said earlier, pressing the knife against my stomach. I think I'm beginning to see what he meant.

 

I give a long and low sigh, and then I reach for the mug, taking a sip of the hot chocolate. I lean in to kiss him, and something in his face relaxes.   
"Thanks." I say, and he nods, fingers drawing lines on my bare chest. He traces over the 'M'. 

"Thanks." He whispers in return, and takes the mug away from me, climbing into my lap. He starts kissing me, slow and languorous, and I know then that he knows. Knows what I've been thinking - what I've been deciding. 

 

I don't think I could ever leave him, anyway.

 

 

\--

 

 

We fuck right there on the curved sofa, Jim on his hands and knees, his fingers splayed, carving lines into the table. He still wears my t shirt, and I only have to drop my towel, neither of us holding back. I feel sorry for Steve, though placate myself by pretending that he'll have his headphones in. Ange and Rocky could return any second, too, but I can't think about that. Jim started rocking in my lap, and I just had to tip him off, to take him properly, to show him what he fucking does to me. He calls my name again and again, gasping, half-formed attempts at the four syllables, his honeyed groans filling the air of the coach as I pound into him, table surprisingly solid beneath his grabbing hands. 

 

He's not even on a high anymore, but we both need this. Especially now that I've made up my mind to stay with him, to stick through it, even if he kills again. I kid myself that I can guide him towards killing the right people - or should it be the wrong ones? - and maybe.. maybe less often. Once a month. Once every three weeks. And he won't fuck them, either. I construct a plan for the future as we rock together, my grunts joining his curses, his gasps, his screams of my name. Every one of them sends me closer to the edge, and when I finally come, I'm pulling him close to me, wrapping my arms around him and pressing my lips to his skin as I throb fucking blissfully and empty myself inside him.

 

He lets me calm for a few minutes, and lays still in my arms, before he tugs lightly on my hair. I take the hint, and push him back to sit onto the table, his knees bent. I take him into my mouth as I kneel on the sofa, his thighs closing around my face as he leans back on his elbows, his mouth falling open. That same litany of growled curses leaves his lips, interspersed with my name, until he's rocking himself into my mouth, my hands curled around his thighs to keep him there. Of course, that's the moment that we hear Ange's voice, arguing with Rocky as they head back towards the coach, and I try to pull back, planning to try and tug back my towel, to find some kind of dignity.

 

Apparently, Jim has other ideas. He always gets what he wants. He's close, and his hands twine in my hair, keeping me there as he fucks my mouth in earnest, my cheeks prematurely flushing red as the door clicks open. Ange is still talking, before her words are interrupted by her own shriek, and she half falls back down the steps, slamming the door shut. Rocky just collapses into muffled laughter. She starts shouting outside, but I can't concentrate on anything she says, because at that moment Jim comes hard into my mouth, the howl of 'Sebastian!' that leaves his lips purposely loud, I decide. He rocks himself against me, and I stroke my fingers along his thighs, sucking lightly, dutifully swallowing everything he gives me. At last, he lays back, shaking and spent on the table, and starts laughing. 

 

Hearing the sound, Ange starts shouting again, and I shake my head, dragging a thumb over my lips and laughing myself, the sound a little breathless.  
"You're a filthy little bastard." I tell him amusedly, and he pulls on his boxer shorts, waiting until I've tucked the towel around my waist to kiss me again.

"I never claimed to be anything else." He murmurs against my lips, before; "..I can taste myself."

I'm still grinning by the time we find our way, exhausted, up to the mattresses. Ange and Rocky finally dare to come inside, Ange still effing and blinding, though Rocky is chortling to himself, glasses clinking a little while later.

 

Jim curls against me, and I slip my arms around him, resting my face in his hair. He laces our fingers, and presses his mouth to them, and I have to force myself not to think about those hands, sinking the knife through De Motte's skin. I've chosen this, now. Chosen him, and all he comes with.

 

And I wouldn't have him any fucking different.

 

\--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Art by hippano](http://hippano.tumblr.com/)


	17. On Ice

When I wake up, I'm surprised to find that Jim is awake already, and he's sitting against the wall of the coach with his guitar, the sleeve of my t shirt still hanging down his shoulder. His song is soft, and he's just practicing a melody, in deep concentration as he plucks on the strings. He doesn't notice that I'm awake for a long few minutes, and I don't care. I'm enjoying just watching him. I can do that, now, I decide. Just enjoy being with him. Stop worrying myself about the things he does, about who he is or what it means for me. I've made my decision, and that's that, as far as I'm concerned. It's peaceful - a nice way to wake up, if I've ever had one.

 

I finally sit up a little, propping myself on my elbows to watch, and he tilts his head at me, an amused smile on his face. His hair falls, tousled, over his forehead, and I purse my lips as the memory of last night - the later part - comes back to me. I don't fancy facing Ange this morning. Jim seems to mirror the sentiment, leaning across the guitar to kiss me on the mouth, his lips warm before he murmurs against my own.   
"She's going shopping today. I went down for coffee. I already had the lecture."

I listen, and sure enough I can't hear her. Probably for the best. Jim's taken one for the team, at least. I'm surprised that the shouting didn't wake me. 

"What time is it?" I ask, stretching, my voice gruff. Jim leans back and picks up his lazy melody, fingers nimble on the guitar strings.

"It's ten. We don't have anything on today. A day off.." He meets my eyes with mock amazement, and I grin, a little relieved. I was dreading sitting through another damn interview, or photoshoot. A day off.

 

\--

 

We risk going down the ladder after a while, and only Rocky sits at the table, giving a very pointed glance in our direction and an amused; "Good _morning._ " I give a rather sheepish grin, aware that he saw me, about nine hours ago, stark bollock naked with Jim's cock in my mouth. But fuck it. At least I'm getting some. And I'm dressed now, at least. Jim just sighs, sauntering over to the other table - the one that we fucked at - and sits down, wearing sweatpants and a black t shirt. It's weird to see him out of those leather trousers. 

 

I sit down beside him and help myself to cereal and milk in a plastic bowl, amazed that someone's bothered to buy real food. He eats with me - another surprise - and I feel like today's gonna be a nice day. Rocky's settled in, a stack of DVDs beside his laptop, and explains that Steve has mates here, and so he'll wait in the coach instead. 

"We'll go out." I say to Jim. "Put a big hoodie on or something. No one'll recognise you."

"Well I certainly hope not.." Jim drawls, sucking his spoon clean. "Don't want a debacle like last night.."

Rocky's eyes flick to us, and I frown, debating against telling him for a moment. But Jim must mean me to, if he's mentioned it that openly. It slips out at last, resigned.

"Jim got drugged. Injected by some fucker as we walked through the crowd."

"...What the fuck?" Rocky's eyes are wide, his frown uncomfortable.  "That old fucker?"

"You tell him." I shake my head and stand, heading for the shower again. If we hadn't fucked all over the place, I'd still feel clean from the shower in the early hours of the morning. Not that I'm complaining. Even as I close the door, I hear Jim begin to recount the events of the night to him in a bored voice.

 

 It already seems years ago.

 

 

\--

 

When I emerge from the bathroom, Jim and Rocky's conversation has ended, and he's standing waiting for me in leather trousers and a huge, grey hoodie with the hood already up, a tendril of black hair escaping to hang over his forehead. I laugh, tugging my t shirt down, the fabric still sticking to my damp skin, and run a hand through my own wet hair.

"Someone's eager."

Rocky rolls his eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on his laptop screen.  
"Take him out, Seb. He's pissing me off."

"Yeah?" I ask amusedly, wondering what he's done now. Jim saunters over, slipping his fingers to the back of the laptop, and closing it with a slap, before giving a simpering smile to the other man, Rocky sighing. He's all business a few moments later, turning back to look at me. Jim's hand remains on the laptop.

"Stay away from big crowds, yeah? Don't get recognised. Don't get injured, for fuck sake. Behave. Nothing in the press, or Ange will kill all of us."

"Duly noted."

Jim reaches over and tosses one of my jumpers at me, obviously fetched when he went to find his hoodie. I laugh again at how fucking eager he is, and feel a slight ache at how often he gets to do this. Hardly ever. Every day I've been with him, he's had some sort of appearance or something. I tug on the jumper, and cock my head at the door.

"Come on then, feathers. Leave Rocky to jack off in peace."

"I'm not-!"

Jim answers before I can, his hand on the door handle and his words curt and amused.

"Yes. You are."

 

\--

 

 

I'm still laughing as we head out over the grass, noticing that barriers have gone up around the arena stage door. Good. A few fans are waiting outside, and I'm a little sorry that Jim didn't find me a thicker jumper. It's fucking freezing. We purposely march away from them, though a few screams go up at the sight of him, the leather trousers no doubt giving him away. Our breath gusts out in front of us as we walk, and even if I wanted to hold his hand, I couldn't - my arms are too busy tucking around my chest to try and keep some warmth. Jesus Christ, it's cold. 

 

I don't think either of us know where we're going, but we're just walking fast, trying to keep warm, heading towards the outskirts of the city centre. I let my eyes settle on his face, and there's a touch of tension there. I don't ask, figuring that it's about De Motte. He probably just had to relive the whole damn thing with Rocky. I don't know what to think. He was so nonchalant about it all last night, and yet now it affects him? I don't think I'll ever properly understand. 

 

I take his hand at last, when we can't see the coach anymore and the area is just a vague shape, back through the mist. We've been walking for a while, and he leans into me, the silence peaceful between us.

"Do you know where you're going?" I ask at last, a little amusedly. He seems to be walking in a kind of bee line, and I've just begun to blindly follow him. "Or are we just walking?"

"Both. But we're almost there." He murmurs, squinting concentratedly through the icy mist. I purse my lips against a smile, thinking about telling him that his words didn't make sense, but just squeeze his hand instead, his fingers cold on mine.

"You been here before?" My words are a little surprised, and he glances at me and arches an eyebrow, a smile on his face.

"Sebastian." He says, and slows, almost stopping walking. He's looking at me like I'm fucking daft. "I tour constantly. For the past few years, it's been tour after tour after tour. Before the States tour, it was back here."

I shrug. 

"So this is one of your regular haunts, is it?" My words are a tad uneasy at that. The last thing we want is to walk into a bar full of people and have Jim immediately accused of some murder he committed, the last time he was here.

 

"Not like that." He answers, and I can practically  _hear_  him roll his eyes, still pulling me through the mist. We reach the place after a few more long minutes of trudging over iced ground, and to my surprise, it's not a bar at all. I raise my eyebrows as it appears through the mist at long last, a ramshackle street of boarded shopfronts and on one side, a homeless man picking at an overflowing bin. Not exactly Jim's usual choice.

 

"What.." I begin, but he's still pulling me along, and I just decide to humour him. He drags me towards a frosted alleyway, and I frown, for a moment thinking that he's about to recreate that first kiss. But he pulls me through, and we step over half-frozen banana peels, pizza boxes and smashed beer bottles to get through to the other side. To my surprise, I can hear voices and faint music, and laugh in quiet disbelief as we emerge into a street market. The stall coverings are pinstriped and tatty, grey with age, and the entire market is in one street, crammed between two tall, old blocks of flats. The building windows are stained with leaking damp, and the sides of the road not populated by the market are littered with rubbish; beer cans and cigarette butts. To be honest, it's a bit of a dump, but the market brings a kind of life to the street. The stalls run the entire length of the place, and I can smell cooking meat and cheese, mingling genres of music and vendors selling hot drinks, clothes, ornaments and perfume, even used books and boxed electrical goods. 

I've never seen anywhere that looks less like Jim's scene. He's into his leather, his mad dancing and his killing. He's used to plush coaches, studios and dressing rooms, everywhere clean and perfect and ready for his arrival. I kind of assumed that it's just how he liked it. But Jesus, the way he's dragging me from the alleyway into the midst of the market, you'd think all of his Christmases had come at once.

"You  _like_ this place?" I ask incredulously, letting myself be pulled in. The vendors shout their offers, and a few people walk by chewing sweets or greasy burgers, an old man even crouching by a bench to try and assemble some kind of fishing pole.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Jim replies, his words low and awed, eyes on the stalls as we walk by. No, I think. No, it's a bloody tip. I let him go on, pausing when he does to look at dinner plates, or a selection of soggy-looking, homemade cookies. "It's so unexpected. Vibrant. Just.. humming."  I suppose I see what he means. The market is ridiculously busy, and we have to push through the crowds, though no one recognises Jim, everyone lost in the sights and stalls. And only a few minutes ago, I couldn't have told you that it was even nearby.

He comes to an absolute standstill very suddenly, and I almost knock him over, not realising that he'd stopped. I open my mouth to ask, but I already see what's transfixed him. The stall is only small and headed with a greying white shelter, staffed by a bearded man in a wheelchair. The table is lined with old, battered guitar cases and bags, straps and plectrums, strings and beaten old music books. Two guitars hang behind the vendor, strapped to the back of the tarpaulin, old and polished. Jim could probably buy this entire stall without so much as checking his bank balance. Or maybe even the entire bloody market. But even so, he steps closer, slowly releasing my hand and letting his own ghost lightly over the display, sliding over cracked leather cases and turning a suede strap in his hands. 

 

I realise with a slow smile that this is probably the only reason he wanted to come here. It kind of makes sense to me that he doesn't want to go into a normal music shop. Probably doesn't get any satisfaction from looking over the bright, new accessories, or a delivery of fresh, hard leather that likely still smells like the plastic bag it was shipped in. I fold my arms across my chest as I watch him, the vendor not seeming to - or pretending not to - recognise him. He begins to talk to him in a gruff accent that I can't place, offering him prices and bringing out new pieces from under the table, including a leather guitar strap, dotted with studs that Jim seems particularly interested in. We stay at the stall for half an hour. Half an hour, and I don't find myself getting bored. I enjoy watching him enjoy himself, seeing him caress that strap, or pick up the guitar cases, or thumb through the plectrums as if he's making some of the most important decisions in his life.

 

I suppose he doesn't do much of that. Making his own decisions. He might get what he wants, but by God, he doesn't control it. Even his murdering is 'allowed' to some extent, by Rocky. We finally come away with a brown plastic bag, the handles curled around Jim's wrist. He's bought the studded guitar strap and a handful of plectrums, and fuck, I've never seen him this damn happy. 

He takes my hand again, and our fingers are frozen solid as we walk away from the stall at last. 

"..Didn't know you were a music lover." I say, but even as the words slip from my mouth, I'm aware that they sound stupid. He's a fucking rockstar, for God's sake. World famous. He's played to thousands. Of course he's a bloody music lover. "I mean," I backtrack, with a half grimace; "..I didn't know you took a real interest. Outside the stage."

Jim rolls his eyes at me, and keeps his eyes forward, looking with less interest at the other stalls we pass, though I'm sure I see the hint of a sheepish smile on his lips. I've cracked him, I know I have. 

 

After a few minutes, we're back beside the alley again, but we stop beside another vendor and buy ourselves a polystyrene cup of tea apiece. It's heaven in my hands, and we begin a slow walk away from the city, the fields beckoning. I figure that if we want to go back to the coach, we're still heading in the right direction. We'll just have to hop a few fences.

"How exactly did you think I got this far without actually enjoying the music?" Jim drawls amusedly at me, his breath misting before him even more prominently after he finishes his tea. I'm the same - the hot drink was a life saver, and has almost scalded my throat with how quickly I've finished it.We're walking on grass now, and it crunches beneath our feet, frosted hard as we toss the cups into a wooden bin.

"Blind luck and good looks?" I quip in return, and he falls into step beside me, a smile on his lips.

"You're an idiot." He informs me, quite simply. I just stick out a hand and push him as I walk, his laugh breathless in the cold as he staggers. He comes back with a vengeance, hands shoving at my arm, though I'm ready for him, grinning as I bat off the attack.

"That the best you got, feathers?" I mock, and he scowls at me, though his eyes are alight, and I'm laughing, running ahead as he watches me. I hear his shoes crunching on the grass as he runs behind me, and then throws himself onto my back - I give a grunt of surprise, a sound catching in my throat as my feet slip on the frost, and I go flying onto the grass, sending him over my head. 

 

The air crashes from my lungs as I land on the hard ground, and for a moment I'm panicking that I've hurt him, brushing frost from my jumper as I sit up, though he rolls onto his stomach and laughs at me, pushing back the hood that's fallen over his face. I barely have a second before he's on me again, straddling my hips as I lay back on the grass, cursing and kicking my legs.

"..Fuck.. Jim.. S'freezing!"

The ground is absolutely fucking icy, the damp seeping through my clothes, but he just leans over me, pressing cold hands against my neck, and dragging another grunt of protest from my lips as I try to bat him off. He laughs again, and I just fucking love the sound - breathless, it mists in the air, the sound like tinkling bells. But still - he's distracted. My hands settle at his thighs and I tip him off in one fluid movement, savouring the surprise on his face as he goes tumbling back down into the grass. Dragging myself to my feet, I start running again, laughing as I leave him in the frost, but he won't give up that easily. He's faster than I thought, and the little fucker catches up to me, sliding a foot between mine and bringing us both down onto the hard grass, a tangle of legs and rucked up jumpers, icy hands against warm skin and shrieking laughter of the sort that I thought I'd never, ever fucking hear from Jim.

 

We just lay there for a long few minutes, getting our breath back. The air buffets out in front of us as we look up at the grey sky, and I fold my hands across my stomach, wondering when the last time was that I had this much fucking fun. 

 

 

"Rossini's my favourite." He confesses after a long while, the words a quietly breathless murmur into the silence of the field.

"..Rossini?" I repeat, and turn my head on the frosted grass to look at him. He drops his hand down to close around mine, and I pull a face at him as he rolls his eyes again.

"Yes. Rossini. You _have_  to know Rossini."

"What is it?"

Jim shakes his head at me, though he's grinning up at the sky, that same smug smile that silently calls me an idiot.

"He was a composer. Did a lot of.. operas." His words are a soft drawl, quietly interesting, and I nod.

"You don't sing any opera."

"I'm not an opera singer. I still like Rossini."

"Right. Right.." He looks over at me again, dark eyelashes brushing his skin as he blinks pointedly at me, and I have to bite back an amused smile, my back absolutely freezing against the grass. He begins to hum, a low, sweeping tune that suddenly dips and dives into an upbeat, almost taunting melody. A smile begins slowly on my lips, and he closes his eyes, his own grin small as he concentrates on his tune - I'm sure I've heard it before.

 

"..So that's-" I try, but he interrupts me with a stern; "Listen!", before he continues, the hum reaching what must be the chorus. I think I do recognise it actually, even as I lay back and stifle a laugh at how fucking eager he is to make me hear it. His fingers tap a rhythm against mine, his other hand beating in time to his humming against the grass. His eyes are still closed, and I can half imagine him dancing to this song, maybe even in the way he dances onstage. It goes on this way for a few minutes, and after a while, I close my eyes too, just losing myself in his tune, in the cold damp of the grass against my back and Jim's insistent rhythm against my fingers. He finishes with an actual note from his mouth, a kind of low and trilling sound that ends with a breathless laugh as he lifts a hand, and then lets it slam back down into the grass.

 

Silence falls, and I look over with a grin, watching the steady, exultant rise and fall of his chest.

"That was very nice." I tease, and he smacks me in the shoulder.

" _That_ ," He says, "Was Rossini."

"..You listen to him when you were younger?" I ask, turning onto my stomach. "When you were a kid, like?"

Jim shakes his head, smile fading into a rather regretful, morose frown. He turns onto his side, propping his head on a hand and meeting my gaze. "No." He answers quietly. "My.. father didn't approve of music."

It's the first time he's spoken about his dad willingly, and I nod, trying to let him know that I understand. 

"Sounds like a bastard."

"The biggest." He doesn't say anything for a long moment, and then when he does, his eyes find mine, as if sensing that I won't like it. "..I enjoyed killing him. I don't have any regrets."

"..That's understandable."  I'm the last person who should be talking about unlawful death, even if I recognise that Jim's high murders are wrong. His father's, at least, sounds justified. I think I see surprise flit across his expression, and give a half smile. It spurs him on, and his fingers skim lightly across the grass, settling on my own.

"De Motte cleaned up the whole thing. He was my first manager. We'd.. never gotten anywhere. It was a trial with the label." He shrugs. "I left soon afterwards. Found Rocky, and then together we found Ange. She got us in with the better label." Jim rolls his eyes. "Needless to say, De Motte never forgot. Every fucking year, he tried to play that card. But he never brought the photos with him. Never acted on it. I should have known that a visit from my 'father' meant a visit from him."

"We all have to do things we're not happy with." I murmur a little numbly, Dino flashing up in my mind. Jim meets my gaze, and doesn't say anything for a long few moments. And then, quietly;

"Who was it?"

"..My best mate."

Jim frowns at me, a crinkle forming between his brows. He turns onto his stomach too, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands. He just looks at me, and it's an invitation to go on. I don't know why, but I take it. With anyone else, I'd shut up. With Jim, I let my eyes settle on the frost, and I speak, my words low and a little morose.

 

"..I've never been closer to a man in my life. Before.." I cock my head at Jim, and the faintest of smiles curls his lip for a moment, and then it's gone. I carry on. "..We did our first tour together, and fuck, I can't tell you how pleased I was to be with him again for the second." I swallow. My heart is pounding uncomfortably in my chest. I haven't talked about it since the tribunal, and even then, it was all lies.   
"We ate together, we did the patrols together. Fuck, we even pissed together. Never anything there, romantically, but.. he was a good friend. The best. Any arguments in the barracks, he'd take my side, quick as that." I click my fingers. "Really loyal. A good guy. Or so I thought."  
I grimace, and Jim's fingers begin drawing patterns on mine. I carry on, my voice a little tighter, more reluctant.

"..We get separated on the first patrol of the week, every week. I'm put on a different rota, and it's fine, because we're the same on all the others. We're about halfway through our tour, and this one week, just this one fucking week, I finish my patrol early. I go back to the bunks, but there's no one there, they're all still out. I know where Dino'll be, so I head in that direction. I find the rest of his men playing poker by the road, but he's not with them. So I start looking for him.."

I swallow, and it's getting harder by the second to talk about this. Jim's eyes are intent on me, and I sigh, my lips pursed. 

"I find him. He's in some civilian backyard." I grit my teeth. "He's fucking a little girl into the dust. _A little girl._ She's not even screaming. I.. I just.. fucking.." I shake my head, and Jim purses his lips. "..I don't stop him. I go back to his men, and I ask them. I say, 'how often does he fucking disappear? How often does he go off, by himself'?"

"..What did they say?" Jim says quietly after a moment, and I shake my head, screwing my eyes shut. 

"They say, every.. fucking.. week." I grimace, and run a hand over my brow. Those were the worst three words I'd ever heard."

 "So of course, I know what he's been doing. I walk straight back to that backyard, and he's just zipping up, just fucking.. tucking himself away. I empty my gun into him. I just fucking empty it. Dino doesn't.. he doesn't even look like  _a person_  when I'm done. Just a mess. And the little girl starts screaming, and his men come running.."

"..And you were disgraced." Jim finishes my story for me, and I nod, a grimace still resting on my lips from that story. That horrible, scarring fucking story that'll stay with me until I kick the bucket myself.

"I knew his family." I say simply, and rub at my brow. "I knew his mum and dad. I didn't want them to know what he'd done. Didn't want that little kid to be dragged in front of a tribunal. So I just didn't tell them. Feigned PTSD, and they didn't buy it. Disgraced. Dishonourable discharge. Friendly fire."

"..Do you regret it?" Jim asks me simply, his words cool as he turns onto his back. I think for a long moment, and Dino flashes before my eyes, laughing with me or passing me my canteen. And then again.. the last time I saw him. Doing that. 

"No. I don't."

We go quiet for a long time, and my teeth have begun to chatter as we lay, Jim's fingers just stroking over mine. I'm lost in my thoughts, in my memories, but it's peaceful. It's nice, to share the truth with someone else. Couldn't even do that with my own family. And he's talked to me about his own father. And De Motte, properly. It's.. more than I'd ever hoped to expect from him. It's fucking incredible He pulls me out of my reverie at long last, sitting up and turning to me, a small frown on his lips. I see that he's been deep in thought, too.

"..Sebastian.. I need to tell you something."

I return the frown, pressing my lips together as I prop myself on my elbows, both of our backs damp from the frosted grass. 

"..Yeah?" I say softly, willing him to tell me what it is, though given what I've just divulged, I figure it must be bad. He nods, and bites his lips, icy hands slipping inside the pocket of his hoodie, and then the pockets of his leather trousers. He's pulling out envelopes. Black envelopes. Dozens of them, all addressed to 'The Magpie' and 'Manchester', fall crumpled to the frosted grass.

\--

 


	18. Are You Scared?

I can't help it. Just for a moment, I think it's him. 

 

As those crumpled black envelopes fall to the grass, my eyes swivel back to Jim, a little alarmed. Has he been taking me for a fool? Trying to make me worry? Just taking the piss?

 

He dispels my worries with a sentence, his words sheepish and his eyes slightly apologetic. 

"Rocky gave them to me this morning. They were waiting for me at the arena. He wanted me to open them, but I couldn't in front of him."

"That's why he was pissed off..? They're open." I note, picking up one of the envelopes, the back torn. Jim nods, sitting back down and bringing his knees to his chest. I'm beginning to feel cold again.

"I tore into them when you were in the shower."

I purse my lips as I go through them all, and there must be at least ten of them. It's the same story - a greyscale picture, and something inked in red. I don't recognise any of the faces, but I know Jim does. His frown gets deeper with each one I pull out, and I know immediately that they're his past kills. Which means that this idiot must know. There's no way someone would try scare tactics like this, just for his conquests. Someone out there knows what he's done.

"Well I guess we know it isn't De Motte.." I say grimly, picking up the last envelope. Jim gives a meek shrug.

"Technically he could have left them at the arena already last night. But no, I don't think it was him."

I'm frowning, turning the envelope between my fingers. This one's empty, and when I glance at Jim, he averts his gaze.

"..Jim." I say, my words both cautious and resigned. "What is it? What was in this one?"

He gets to his feet, brushing frost from his trousers and from the hoodie, bending down to gather the envelopes haphazardly back into his pockets. I stand too, but slowly, waiting for him to tell me.

"Nothing was in that one." He says at last, the lie perfectly executed. But I know him now. And he wouldn't have taken that long to answer, nor be avoiding my gaze.

 

"Jim." I say again, my voice a little tired, and I stand with my arms folded across my chest, making it clear that we're not going anywhere until he's told me. He stares defiantly back, still stuffing envelopes into his pockets.

At long last, he breaks the eye contact, and gives a long, annoyed sigh. He reaches into the back pocket of his leather trousers, and pulls out a crumpled photograph. Greyscale.

 

I raise an eyebrow. It's.. me. 

 

The picture must be recent, because I'm dressed in my work blacks, and if I squint, I can just see the tip of that 'M' poking out of my t shirt. I'm looking to the side, and ducking into an arena door, it looks like. I frown, and my eyes slip down to the red lettering at the bottom.  _'You broke the pattern'_ , it says.

 

I look to Jim, and he's watching me, seemingly awaiting my reaction.   
"Turn it over." He says quietly, and I flip the photograph in my fingers. There's more red lettering on the back.

 

_'Fix it.'_

 

\--

 

We start walking back, and we remain in silence for a few moments. I'm thinking, and Jim has his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, the frost crunching beneath our feet as we walk. At last, my thoughts come to a head and I have to ask.

 

"Why didn't you tell me? What, you think I'll assume you're going to kill me?"

I don't think Jim's going to answer, because he keeps his eyes on the ground, and we keep walking in silence for another long few minutes, the picture of me still crumpled in my fist. I can't pretend that I don't feel a little betrayed. Up until now, we've been together in this. Receiving the letters, talking it over.. All the shit with De Motte..

 

He speaks, finally, and the words are so quiet that I'd have missed them if I wasn't listening for them.

"I like it."

I know what he means of course. I roll my eyes, and an exasperated sigh slips out. I speed up a little to match his pace.

"I know you like it. It's a little fucking obvious. The way you turned away from De Motte-"

"The letters." He says, interrupting me with a side glance. "..I like the letters."

I'm still walking beside him, but my steps slow slightly, and I frown. Any bravado disappears from my expression, and I'm just fucking confused. He's being threatened, for God's sakes. And he likes it? It doesn't make any sense. I open my mouth to ask, but he beats me to it.

 

"He compliments me. What I do, how I do it.. He compliments me on something I enjoy doing. I can't help it. I like them. I like it."

His words are flat, simple, as if there's nothing more to it than that.

"Jim," I remind, disbelieving in my anger. "Whoever it is, is fucking threatening you. They want something - they're not just sending you fucking fan mail!"

"They haven't asked for anything." He says back, just as calmly, and I throw up my hands.

"Yeah - except for you to _kill me_ , for fuck sake!"

 

Jim shakes his head, eyes fixing on the frost again and the arena is in sight through the mist.   
"They just want me to stick with my pattern. Fucking and killing. I fucked you but I didn't kill you."

I'm about to ask how the hell anyone could know that, but I'm already thinking back over the past few days, cataloguing our behaviour. Kissing backstage. Lifting him over my shoulder to escape the fans. Squeezing his hand in Mandy Manners' studio. Not to mention him singing that damn song with his guitar, shooting looks at me the whole time. I suppose we haven't exactly been keeping it quiet.

 

"Are you going to, then?" I drawl, bitter amusement in my mocking tone. "Kill me? ' _Fix the pattern'?_ "

 

"Of course not." He spits, glancing back at me with a venomous expression, fingers curled into fists. "This is why I didn't want to show you that fucking photograph. I knew you'd.. be like this."

_"Be like what, exactly?_ " I near yell back, throwing out my arms. " _A bit fucking pissed that you didn't tell me? Or that you're sucking up your fucking blackmailer's praise? Or - OR - that he's started giving you fucking orders?!_ "

 

Jim's still marching ahead, towards the coach, not answering me, but I throw myself after him and tug him around by an arm, forcing him to look at me.

"Or maybe you want to follow them." I hiss, and he winces slightly, trying to tug himself from my grasp. "Maybe you want to stick me with your little fucking blade, and see how he compliments the angle that my blood fucking spurts?"

Jim stops struggling, seemingly sensing that I won't let him go, and for a moment, something else takes over his expression. His eyes grow dark and dead, and the hint of a smile toys with his lips as he tilts his head, the words soft and taunting.

"Yes. Perhaps I do."

I release him almost immediately, and he rolls his eyes, that maddened expression disappearing as he turns and begins walking again, his shoulders set stiffly, obviously pissed off. I follow him silently, reeling from how easily he's able to fall into character like that. It's fucking terrifying. 

 

\--

 

We reach the coach together, and I help him reluctantly through the crowd, barriers now in place to keep the fans back. The second we're inside, he's heading up the ladder, but Ange stops us with a stern "..Come here," sitting at the table with her hands pressed together. A single black envelope sits in front of her, and Jim and I exchange a look, despite being pissed off with each other.

 

After a moment of being frozen, we walk reluctantly over to the table and sit down opposite her, and she scrutinizes us both.

  
"Either of you care to explain what this is?" She asks calmly, and taps at the envelope.

"No." We both say, at the same time. I shrug, and Jim drapes his legs over my lap. I'm a little relieved at the contact, my hands falling to stroke lightly at the smooth skin of his ankles. It's a truce. We're okay. 

 

But this is something else. 

"I thought it might be fan mail." Ange says, and pulls out the photograph inside. "But something tells me that it isn't. And Rocky said you had a whole stack of these, this morning too." 

 

We're barely listening, both of our gazes falling to the new photograph. It's from yesterday, when we were fighting through the crowd. Jim is over my shoulder, his chin propped on an elbow, grinning as he says something to me. I'm glancing back at him, an arm outstretched for the door, and the fans surround us, pushy and frozen in their eagerness. It's greyscale again, but there are no red letters. 

"Turn it over." Jim says a little sternly, fingers twitching as he resists reaching out for it. 

"That's what I was hoping you could explain." Ange says wryly, and turns the photograph, the white back covered with words. They're words cut from print, and as much as I read through them, I can't seem to find any meaning. 

 

_'ban', 'yes', 'eye', 'baby', 'die', 'tabuli', 'afraid', 'ivy'_

I read through them again, and then a third time before my eyes flick to Jim, but he looks equally as blank, a frustrated line forming between his brows.

 

"Is it some kind of joke?" Ange asks us, and I shrug. 

"I don't know." I answer honestly. "I don't know what it means."

"Tabuli.." She repeats, a little amusedly, and Jim frowns. Ange goes on. "Is this what they were all like, then? The other envelopes?"

"No." I say, but Jim says "Yes."

We both fall silent, and she frowns at us, before shaking her head and standing up.

"Whatever." She says at last, chucking us a couple of packaged sandwiches from the box in the corner. "It's probably just some fan playing with you. But don't reply, and don't encourage them. Last thing we need is some weirdo sending mock ransom notes.."

I give a hollow laugh, and she's not even listening anymore, grabbing her fag packet to go and smoke outside with Rocky and Steve. 

 

"Show's in three hours!" She calls, before the door shuts, and Jim and I make our way up to the mattresses, the new photo brought with us. We sit down, on our individual beds this time, things still a little awkward after our shouting match.

"..Any idea?" I ask, and he shakes his head. 

 

"I assume it came today. So he probably thinks I'm ignoring his last request, but I only got those today, even if he left them yesterday." 

"So you think it's a threat?"

Jim frowns, and I can see that he's uncomfortable with the idea. He likes the thought of his silent watcher, complimenting his kills, but nothing is that simple. Of course, this fucker wants to control him. 

 

"Maybe." He agrees at last, voice quiet as he holds out his feet. I bite back a smile, taking the hems of his leather trousers, tight around his ankles, and pull hard. They slide away from his skin, leaving them in his boxer shorts, and I toss them onto the floor. He relaxes into his pillow, in his hoodie and his pants. "Maybe something like, if you don't kill him, I will."

"Mm.." I fold my arms behind my head, and meet his gaze with slight amusement. "Maybe I should be scared."

It goes silent for a few moments, and then I look at him again, his eyes on mine and rather soft.

"..Are you?" He asks quietly. "..Scared?"

This bastard doesn't frighten me with his newspaper words, but suddenly, I'm not sure that it's what Jim's asking me. I hold his gaze for a few seconds, and then crawl between the mattresses, slipping my hands beneath that hoodie and pressing them against warm skin, pulling Jim to me. I press my lips to his, and it's intended as a soft peck to the lips, though he deepens it after a moment, opening his mouth for my tongue and sliding his hands into my hair. When we finally pull back, we're both breathless, my words spoken against his lips.

"..Yeah. Yeah, you're fucking terrifying."

And you know what? I'm only half joking.

 

 

\--

 


	19. Close Your Eyes

It's two hours on, and we're sitting in Jim's dressing room - an immaculate new carpet replacing the old one that was no doubt stained with De Motte's blood. We've spent the last two hours just lounging on the coach, allowing ourselves to get warm again after that frost, and keeping our hands on each other. And then our mouths. But just our mouths, mind. We're saving ourselves for Jim's after-show high - the second last before the tour is over.   
  
The thought hits me, and I get up from where I'm sitting, watching Jim get ready, fluffing his hair in the mirror. I pick up the celebratory whiskey bottle left on his dressing table and pour a measure into two glasses, passing one to him. He sits back, wearing his new, designer leather trousers - a gift from Mandy Manners, and takes a sip, watching me.  
  
"It's come round quickly." I muse, frowning a little as I look into my glass. "This time tomorrow you'll be getting ready for your last show."  
  
"Mm.." Jim shrugs, and drains his glass. "But like I said. They'll have me on my next tour in a few months." He grimaces, and I frown at him, fingers circling the rim of my own glass.  
  
"You don't want to do another one." I say, and he sighs, passing me the eyeliner pencil. I set down my glass, take his chin in my hand and begin to line his eyes. Afterwards, he kisses me, and the corner of my mouth quirks. I like it when he does that. Surprises me.   
  
"Not really." He answers. "I've been doing this since I was seventeen. And the tours get bigger every year. The States one was utterly exhausting.."  
  
He turns away, peeling off the hoodie and tossing it at me. I catch and fold it, tossing it onto the sofa. I watch as he slips on his feathered vest.  
  
"Then don't." I say simply. "Christ, you must have enough money now to do whatever you want. Or nothing at all."  
  
"It's not about the money." Jim replies, running another hand through his hair, and then picking up my glass and taking a sip. His words are resigned. "...It's about the highs."  
  
His words are a little shameful, and I nod. I understand. He likes killing, and the high from his shows is an excuse. Or at least, 'was', before I came along.   
  
"You could do it in a better way if you controlled yourself." I say, sitting down on the sofa arm. "Go after.. paedophiles, or rapists. Don't fuck them, obviously. But if you need a kill.." I shrug. "It's doable, without slaughtering innocents."  
  
Jim's call goes out and puts an end to our conversation, and he walks over to me amidst the knocks on the door, and takes my face in his hands. He kisses me, and I raise my eyebrows, a little surprised. He's always this forthright, but never quite this soft. I like it, I decide, grinning against his lips as I slip my arms around his back. The knocks on the door get louder after a moment, and I sigh, finally releasing him to his waiting audience.

 

 

 

I take the picture from my pocket - from Ange's envelope earlier, and follow Jim and his entourage of stagehands to the stage, where he's allowed a few seconds to compose himself before he's stalking out onto the stage, to tumultuous applause. His opening tune rings out, and then too does his voice, a low velvet croon that rings out around the arena. The crowd roars for him, and I smile, sitting down on a seat beside the stage to look at this bloody riddle. It might clue us in to what this bastard wants. Money is doable. But anything else.. 

 

'ban', 'yes', 'eye', 'baby', 'die', 'tabuli', 'afraid', 'ivy'

 

 

They just don't make any damn sense, I think exasperatedly, before glancing up and watching Jim sashay around the stage, singing about love and chains. I watch him for a few minutes, tapping a hand against my thigh, before pulling my attentions back to the words, trying to determine what any of them might mean. 'Die', 'afraid' and 'ban' have me worried... but 'baby' and fucking 'tabuli' are just ridiculous. Isn't it some kind of foreign salad? They can't possibly expect us to get any sort of meaning out of that.

 

After a long while, I get bored of trying. I'm not getting anywhere. My mind perseveres though as I watch Jim throw himself around the stage, tonight doing a cartwheel into his next verse, the move sending an awed titter around the staged hands. I watch fairly proudly, and then sigh, returning my eyes to the damned photograph.

 

'ban', 'yes', 'eye', 'baby', 'die', 'tabuli', 'afraid', 'ivy'

 

 

Suppose it's the first letter of every word, I think. My heart begins to thump as I get 'BYE'...but then I frown, the next words making up a nonsensical 'BDTAI'. Even if I rearrange them, I can only get 'badit', or 'ibatd', or something equally as crap. I rub at my brow, feeling the eyes of the stage hands on me as they pass, even Ange pausing to look over my shoulder, and ask if I'm doing a crossword. I shake my head, hide the photograph and purse my lips in concentration - only pausing to watch as Jim comes offstage for his change, the feather vest stripped away from him before he dashes back on in his crime scene tape. 

 

I'm still trying to figure it out. That 'BYE' was so promising.. I look again, and try to figure out how I got it.

 

'ban', 'yes', 'eye', 'baby', 'die', 'tabuli', 'afraid', 'ivy'

 

 

The start of every word.. two letters apart.. 

 

Wait a minute. Two letters apart.. My heart starts thudding again, and I snatch at the shirt of a passing stage hand, demanding a pen. One is handed to me with a rather fearful look, but I don't give it a second thought.. I'm circling the letters - every third letter.

 

B Y E   B Y E   B I R D Y 

 

Holy fuck. That's it. That's it, it's a code. I swallow, and lower my pen, eyes finding Jim on stage as he runs a paint-coated hand down his chest. There's ice in my stomach. Jim must have been right. If they.. if they didn't see him kill me after they sent him the picture of me.. They're planning to take matters into their own hands.

 

But it's not me they're after.  It's Jim.

 

 

It's The Magpie.

 

 

\--

 

I'm not sure how serious the threat is, but I don't think it matters. The last thing I want right now is Jim, out on the stage, the centre of attention - the target - for thousands and thousands of people. I'm out of my chair, the photograph clutched in my fist, and find Rocky on his phone by the door, his free hand pressed to his ear to try and listen to his call. I snatch it from his hand and end the call, and he rounds on me, though is more bemused than angry.

"What the hell, S-"

"Jim's in danger." My words are flat and curt, and Rocky's indignant expression fades, his mouth pursed worriedly as he looks around, as if he can see the source of the danger backstage. I grab his arm and pull him down the hall, unable to hear ourselves think with the booming of the music so close by.

I begin talking fast.  
"Those letters you gave him this morning, they were pictures of the people he killed." Rocky's eyes widen, but I don't let him speak. "We didn't tell you because there was no threat there, no clue that they even knew what he'd done, but now there's something else. They sent a picture of him, and it's a threat. They sent a picture of me, told him to kill me, and he hasn't. Now they're going after him. I don't know why, I don't fucking know who, but I swear to God if you don't get him off that stage-"

"Seb," Rocky holds up his hands, his expression uneasy but a practiced calm on his face. "I get it, okay? I get it, but Jesus.. calm down. Just try and calm down. He's most of the way through the second set now.." We both glance towards the stage, and spot Ange, swaying by the stage manager. 

"We don't tell Ange if we can help it." Rocky says firmly, and I nod. He points to the dressing room. "Go and scout out - check for hidden wires, look for anything that could hurt him."

I'm immediately thinking of that whiskey and swear under my breath, hurrying into the dressing room. The door closes behind me, and I can still hear Jim, his singing muffled through the walls as I search the place, throwing up the sofa cushions, tugging open the empty doors of the cabinet and sniffing dubiously at that whiskey, though it smells normal. I swear, if anyone lays a fucking finger on him - if anyone even tries.. 

 

I figure that we've got about twenty minutes of the show left, and wonder if they plan to strike when he's on his high. Given everything they supposedly know, it wouldn't exactly be the optimum time to try and kill him. After all, he's at his best with a knife when there's adrenaline pumping through his veins.

 

The door opens and closes behind me, and I'm arms deep in the bottom drawer of the dresser, finding a handful of things - a beaded necklace, an old magazine, two empty wine bottles.. 

"I can't find anything so far-" I begin, and that's when it hits me. It - literally - hits me. There's a blow to the back of my head, and I curse as I go down, toppling onto my back and bringing the drawer and its contents with me. 

 

I must black out, because when I'm blinking myself back into awareness, I feel groggy, and someone's dimmed the lights in the room. Rocky stands over me, and I try and sit up, muttering a "..What the fuck?"   Did they get into the room? Is Jim okay? How long have I been out?

"Don't move."   
I still at the words, a little surprised that they've come from Rocky. It doesn't sound like his voice at all, though maybe I'm concussed. I frown up at him, squinting in the light of the lampshade that he stands in front of, and he bends down to rest on his haunches, looking at me with an expression that seems too cold to belong to him. 

"..Rocky?" I say slowly, warily, and he nods, reaching into his back pocket and taking out a capped syringe. It takes me a few seconds longer than it might usually, but I throw myself out of the way, trying to bolt. My brain hasn't quite caught up yet, but I know that he's planning to stick me with that fucking thing, and no chance am I taking it like a good boy. He's expecting it, grabbing me by my shoulder and slamming me back against the floor, the needle finding its way unexpectedly into the crook of my arm. A gasp catches in my chest, not expecting it, and I throw him off, using the dresser to force myself to my feet. What.. what the fuck is going on? My head pounds from that blow, and then from connecting with the floor, and I pick up the dresser chair, holding it in front of me like I'm fighting a fucking lion.

 

Rocky just stands there, huge, bulky and calm as a fucking cucumber.   
"You stay the fuck away from me." I spit. "What the hell is going on? What are you playing at?"

He turns around, bends down to the sofa where he picks up a small stack of newspapers. On top are a pile of clean, unused black envelopes, a white pen laying next to them. A greyscale photograph of De Motte is on top, the red lettering already in place, and I'm taking all this in with an open mouth, ice dripping into my stomach. 

 

It's him.

 

It's Rocky.

 

It's been Rocky this whole time.

 

"..It doesn't.. it doesn't make any sense.." I breathe, my expression both enraged and confused, still clutching the chair in front of me like he'll pounce at any moment. Instead, he throws up his arms, sending the newspaper cuttings, the envelopes and the photograph flying into the air, and then fluttering down to land on the carpet.

"It'll be a shame to see you go, Sebastian.." Rocky says, in that same cool detached voice, not sounding like himself at all. It puts something cold into my veins. "But really, it'll be quite poetic."

"I'm not fucking going anywhere." I spit, and slam down the chair, facing him with my fingers curled into fists and my shoulders squared, though he just shakes his head at me, and lifts up the syringe. The empty syringe. My mouth goes dry, and I look down at the crook of my arm, not even able to see the needle mark.

 

 What's he put into me? Has he killed me? Is it infected blood? Cyanide? Some kind of.. chemical compound? The thoughts whir through my mind in a panicked blur, and my throat is thick, my limbs suddenly shaky and leaden even as I stand. 

"You motherfucker.." I spit, and he shrugs, sticking the capped syringe back into his pocket, and folding his arms, waiting for me to fall. It doesn't take long. Soon, I'm clinging onto the dresser to keep me upright, and then I'm on my knees, and then even they can't hold me up anymore. I'm sweating, trembling with the effort and finally manage to fall, heavy and numb, onto my back, my heart rocketing in my chest.

 

"It's just a sedative." He informs me, and I'm instantly confused. Why the hell would he just give me a sedative? If I'm to assume that he's behind all this - which I'm still fucking struggling to come to terms with.. Why not just kill me now? I watch him from the floor with venomous eyes, and he goes on, winking at me. "Jim gets to do the real work, after the show."

"H'won't.. kill me.." I spit, gritting my teeth, my tongue heavy in my mouth. Of course he won't. After everything we've been through, everything we've said to one another. And especially after that argument today. There's not a chance in the world, no matter how strong the high.

 

Except.. except that Rocky is taking something from his pocket. It's a tiny stamp pad, but it's red ink. The same colour ink that letters the compliments onto those grey photographs. I watch, paralysed and uneasy as he lifts up my right hand, completely numb, and rubs the pad over my fingertips, over the middle of one finger, and on my thumb. And then he slips the stamp away again, and stands. He gestures slowly to the scattered envelopes, the photograph of De Motte and the newspapers.

"What a  _shame._. What a scandal.. To come back and find you here among your best work, Sebastian.."

He takes my unfinished glass of whiskey from earlier, and sets it into my numb fingertips. And then he takes the bottle, and sloshes a good measure down my t shirt.

"..Drunk out of your mind, and passed out. Surrounded by the evidence.. Oh, he'll be utterly torn.."

Cold fills my stomach, and for now, it's enough to keep me awake. I'm being framed. Framed for threatening Jim, for making light of his murders, for scaring him into thinking that someone was coming for him. At least, that's how he'll see it. But, I think..  how could I have known about his past murders? There's a glimmer of hope before I remember that Rocky, of all people, is in on this. I've had enough conversations with Rocky to justify him telling Jim that he told me about his past victims. A name, a google search.. I could have found the photographs. And Jim trusts Rocky. Always has. As long as I've known him, anyway.

 

I have another moment of hope, deciding that there's no way that I could have told him to kill  _me_  - wouldn't that just be ridiculous? But then.. no. No, I see that too. If I was confident enough that Jim wouldn't kill me.. confident enough to send him the order to do so. To sleep with him. Without fear that he'd ever actually do it.. And that's how Jim will see it. Taunting him. Laughing at him. Oh God. Oh, fucking Christ.

 

I can't speak any more, but if I could, I'd call Rocky every bad name under the sun, because he's got me. He's fucking got me over a barrel. He seems to sense it, looking down at me gleefully. I still can't figure out what he's getting out of this. Has.. has he had this planned, since that first night? Since I followed Jim, and discovered the secret?

 

"You see, Sebastian.." He begins, walking over to the sofa and sitting down on one of the cushions, regarding me pleasantly. "Jim has a lot of potential. I'd rather like him to join me, and mine."

Me and mine? I think, and frown internally. Isn't he just a fucking tour manager? A part of my niggling mind asks how he could have possibly cleaned up all of those murders alone, and I swallow. I don't know why I didn't think about it earlier. I suppose I just sort of assumed that there was a.. team. It's all clicking into place, and behind the numbness, I feel sick.

"But you've become something of a roadblock." He shakes his head at me with something akin to pity. It's like I'm seeing him for the first time. It's mad. I watch him, paralysed. "He's become too attached to you, and he broke that lovely little pattern. Now, it's a real shame. But I think he just needs a little.. nudge."

He gestures to the 'evidence', laying around me. 

"And if he can't kill you when you've wronged him this severely.. then he doesn't deserve to be on my team at all." He shakes his head. "And I'll have no other use for him. So, as sweet as his little singing voice is.." He gives a mock pout, and a half wave. 

 

"Bye bye birdy."

 

\--

 

I think he must have hit me again, or maybe the sedative really fucking kicked in, because the next thing I know, Jim is on me. I'm barely able to open my eyes, my whole body feeling like I'm underwater, but I can smell the thick stench of the spilled whiskey, the ink on my fingers, and Jim; beautiful Jim, with his sweat and leather. 

 

I wonder how long it took him to piece together the puzzle. How long he stood there looking at me, looking at the evidence. How quickly that post-show smile faded from his face, looking at the whiskey glass in my hand, and the ink stains on my fingers. I pry my eyes open, and he's got his fingers fisted in my t shirt, his face contorted with rage as he shakes me hard, my body slamming against the floor again and again. There's a roaring in my ears, and I can't hear much of what he's shouting at me. He releases me, and begins punching me in the face; the chest, the stomach, anywhere he can reach, his teeth gritted in humiliated indignity. I can't really feel the pain, only the burning sting of the skin afterwards, and the throbbing ache when he pulls back from the last hit.

 

"J...m.." I try, but the words won't come. My mouth is dry, my tongue leaden in my mouth, and he's not listening anyway. He's still shouting, but he's on his feet, pacing. Kicking at the envelopes and the newspaper, slamming his hands against the wall. 

" _Should have known.._ " I catch. " _..All this time.._ " He kicks me in the side, and then falls to his knees beside me. ". _.Talking to Rocky_..  _Knew them all._."

He's still shouting, and I can't take it anymore. Maybe I'm weak. Fuck it.. I am weak. I want him to kill me - I want it so desperately that I don't give a fuck about Rocky, and Jim knowing the truth. Not right now. I don't care that he'll think I betrayed him, that I think that I'm better than him, that I was toying with him. If he doesn't kill me, Rocky might hurt him, and I won't risk that.

 

I close my eyes, and the roaring in my ears returns. I can't hear any more snatches of his shouting, and it's probably for the best. I let myself focus on other things. The two of us, laying in the frosty grass. Or on the sofa, covered by half a throw, in the faint light of the early morning. 

 

  
_You're the one that I want, you are the one I want.._

Jim, standing on his tiptoes to kiss me in that alley, to pull me to him as viciously as if he'd never kissed another damn person.

_Oh, oh, oh, honey._

  
Telling me about his family, huddled in that giant, daft hoodie, and pulling the sleeves over his hands.

_The one that I want, you are the one I want.._

Turning to face me on stage, his guitar in his hands, grinning at me as I stand, dumbstruck at the song he'd chosen to tease me.

_The one that I need.. Oh yes, indeed.._

  
I open my eyes, and they're wet. Jim is leaning over me, and I try to tip my head back to kiss him, a weak and ridiculous reaction. Something flashes in his hand, bright and metallic, and then there's a deep pain in my stomach, a pooling, blooming pain that drags some kind of sound from my throat, even if I can't hear it myself.  He's done it, I realise, through the numb, throbbing drag of my stomach, and the blood that I can feel, already soaking through my clothes. He's done it, and now he'll be safe.

 

The world fades to black, but I can only feel relief.

 

\--

 


	20. Next of Kin

I'm not dead.

 

It's the first thing that runs through my mind. My eyes are closed, but everything is bright, white, and I decide that if this is heaven, I want no fucking part of it. The pain is there too - dulled and numb, but getting stronger by the second. I feel wrapped in cotton wool, everything thick and white, and it must take me an hour or two of floating inside my consciousness before the drag of pain becomes too strong, and my eyes snap open with a harsh gasp.

 

I'm in a hospital. In a bed. Everything is white and shiny clean, and it stinks of bleach and something else, something human. The window is open, a curtain fluttering in the breeze, and other men lay in the beds to my left and right, though two are asleep, and one is sitting up, pouring a drink from his water jug.

 

I try and sit up too, and am immediately overwhelmed by the pain that confronts me all at once. My lower stomach feels as if it's on fire, throbbing and aching and constricted with tight bandages. My face and chest ache, and it takes me a long few moments to remember through the groggy haze of that sedative that Jim beat me to a pulp before he gathered himself enough to sink his knife into me.  _Jim._ The fear is like a shard of ice in my stomach. I'm not dead. I'm not dead, and that means he didn't kill me. He's in danger - or maybe Rocky's already had him. Already murdered him. 

 

I ignore the painful tug of the IV in my arm, scrabbling for a remote on my tray table, and press every button until my television comes on, the screen small and hanging on a metal arm over my bed. I flick between news channels, but there's no talk of the rockstar's death. No talk of a life-threatening injury to The Magpie. He's okay.. He's okay, for now. I have to get back there.

 

Grimacing at the fucking gown that I'm wearing, I tug myself free of the IV and slide off the bed, though I grunt from the effort, and have to pause to rest a hand on my stomach. Jesus fucking Christ. I'm surprised I'm still here. I wonder who called the ambulance. Definitely not fucking Rocky. I snatch up the file from the end of my bed, and it just says 'Seb', with the quotation marks and everything. I frown, and flick through, blood dripping from my arm, from the torn IV. Christ. I've had blood transfusions. I was operated on. I have an instant urge to unwrap my bandages and look at the stitches, but there's not time for that. I have to get to Jim. He'll be on his way to fucking London by now, for his finale show.

 

I dress quickly, wearing yesterday's jeans and stealing a t shirt from the side of one of the sleeping men's beds, though the one pouring water shouts at me, and then for a nurse. I'm gritting my teeth at the pain, at the effort of moving, and dragging my ruined body into purpose. My bed is making some kind of beeping sound, likely from my detached IV, and I'm in no mood to be fucking restrained and forced into treatment. They've patched me up. That's enough. I just wish I had some fucking morphine tablets to keep me going. The pain in my stomach is dragging, an aching throb every time I lift my arms or take a step. I check my pockets - wallet and phone -  and then I'm good to go, pacing out of the ward just as a gaggle of nurses hurry inside, somehow missing me completely. 

 

I don't have long, though. The signs tell me I'm in Manchester General Infirmary, and a passing clock says that it's almost noon. I've been out for twelve hours. I swallow, thinking about the damage Rocky could do to Jim in that time. I pass a mirror, too, and it isn't pretty. One cheekbone is beginning to blacken with a bruise, and my lip is cut and swollen. There's a long cut across one eyebrow too, and that irritates me. It looks stupid. 

 

It takes forever to get out of the place, to zigzag through winding corridors and double doors, forcing my way out finally into the cold light of the day, hairs on my arms immediately rising from the cold. I don't have a jacket, and so start walking fast, thinking about the fastest train to London, if I'll have enough cash in my wallet..

 

"Sebastian?"

 

 

\--

 

I almost miss it, that breathing of my name, and when I glance back, I see her. Ange stands, her mouth open, eyes wide as she takes me in. A bag that I recognise as my own hangs from her fingertips, and I walk back to her, my words wary.

"..Ange..?"

"You're alive.." She breathes, disbelief cracking into an almost hysterical relief, and she has to take a moment to lean against the wall  of the hospital. I help her there, and my teeth chatter from the cold, though I can't help but feel an irrepressible sense of losing time. I need to get to London. "You're alive!" She repeats, and I frown.

"Yeah, I'm alive." I say flatly. "I had to have three blood transfusions, apparently. And surgery."

"I thought you were dead at the arena." She says, her expression confused. "I.. I just brought your things for your.. next of kin, I suppose. I.. I was just going to leave them at reception.."

"What?" I say, confused myself. She thought I was dead? Right now, it's not my main concern. I shake my head, and put a hand on her shoulder, my expression urgent and serious. "Ange, how's Jim? Is he okay?"

She looks at me like I'm mad. Her disbelief and relief is beginning to fade to something else, something reproachful, and something inside me wilts. She's been speaking to Rocky. 

"He's fine." She says flatly, and it's not enough. It's not enough detail, it's not telling me what he's been doing, if he's been eating, if Rocky has been whispering poison into his ear. 

"We need to talk." I decide gruffly, though she frowns, beginning to say that she doesn't think it's the best idea.

"No." I say. "We're talking." I take the bag from her, and try and drag her to a cafe just off the hospital grounds. She must decide to come with me after all, because my strength is sapped by the pain, and I don't think I could force her anywhere. 

 

"Tell me what you know." I say to her, my teeth chattering as we head inside and find a table away from the other customers. She holds up a hand and mouths for two teas from the man at the counter, and I sigh impatiently. "Or what you think you know. Tell me about last night."

She frowns at me, and I see that same unease as she leans back in her seat, away from me. She doesn't want to associate with me.

"..Rocky told me everything." She begins, watching me closely, a little disgust in her expression. "He ran to get me after the show, and he said that he'd found out that you were sending Jim threatening letters. In black envelopes. And.. and obviously I said, I'd given one to you only that morning.. and I was pretty shocked, yeah."

The man brings over the teas, and Ange pays him. She curls her hands around the mug, and continues, the words simple yet so fucking believable. I hate it.

"He says that he'd found you, drunk, with all the stuff.. the newspaper and the envelopes. That Jim wouldn't open the door of the dressing room.. So we both went, and we forced open the door, and he was there." She shifts a little awkwardly, and I narrow my eyes infinitesimally.

"There?" I prompt. Ange purses her lips.

"He was like.. screaming, Seb. Screaming and crying, and leaning over you. And he was covered in blood." Her eyes grow haunted for a moment, and I know that she's back there, seeing it all. "And Rocky started saying 'he's killed him', 'he's killed him'.. He made me take Jim back to the coach.. but he wouldn't let go of you.. But.. but we made him. Rocky said he could sort it all out, that he wouldn't go to prison."

Ange's hands are shaking around the mug, and I watch her, a little alarmed. 

"And.. when I came back from the coach.. it was gone. All the blood.. all the.. newspapers.. and you. And there were men walking around that I didn't know.."

"It was a cover-up." I say quietly. "You were going to cover up my death."

"You don't understand," Ange says, frowning and shaking her head. "Jim.. Jim was upset.. He didn't mean to do it."

If only she knew, I think. Knew that he killed people as a way to keep himself sane. That he never meant it, even if he enjoyed it. I take her hands, and she winces. 

"I know that, Ange." I say, my words firm but quiet. "But how the hell did I get to hospital?"

There's no way in hell Rocky or his men would have taken me in, or called an ambulance. They would have let me bleed out, the little I had left to go. 

"...This morning, Rocky told me that he'd had one of his men take the body away. Bury it somewhere." She's still shaking, and I force the tea back into her hands. "But.. but then I went to speak to Morley-" I frown, and she explains, "The stage manager.. for Manchester. I went to speak to Morley, and he says that he found you laying out in the hall, on some kind of.. some cart, or something. He got you into the back of his car, and he took you to hospital. I.. I.."

I have to wait for a minute for her to regain her composure before she can finish.

 

"He said that the doctors at A&E weren't holding out much hope. And then.. and Rocky kept saying that you were dead, so.."

I sit up a little straighter, a smile of half wonderment stretching disbelievingly over my lips. "..Rocky thinks I'm dead." I breathe. Well, Morley taking me to hospital makes sense, I suppose. It explains the 'Seb' on my file. They wouldn't have even known my last name. 

 

Ange nods. "I should probably call-"

"NO!"

She jumps out of her skin, and her phone clatters down onto the table. She drags her hand away from mine, and looks at me with a mixture of fear and disdain.

"What does it matter if we were going to cover it up?" She asks me haughtily after a moment. "That doesn't mean anything now. And you were still an arse. Fucking.. blackmail? What were you  _thinking_?"

I take her phone and put it on my side of the table, still watching her.

"What exactly did Rocky tell you about that?" I ask dubiously.  Ange frowns at me, as if she's spelling out the obvious.

 

"He said that you were jealous. Of all the people that he'd shagged, that he'd gone out to shag when he was on his.. post-show comedown. That you started threatening to go to the press, or to hurt them, or something."

I give a bitter laugh, and it hurts my stomach. I press a hand to it, and Ange watches uneasily. "Right.." I say. It makes sense. It's a plausible fucking story, I'll give him that.

"And what the hell did you tell Morley?"

"I.. I told him that you were in a bad place.. That you had personal issues, and you'd been drinking a lot, and that we found you like that."

"..So he thinks I tried to kill myself by stabbing myself in the stomach?" I say pointedly slowly, arching an eyebrow, and Ange scowls at me. 

"It was all I could come up with. It doesn't  _fucking matter_! You're alive! And.. and sacked, if you hadn't got that far."

She kicks my bag closer to me under the table, and I watch her, just thinking for a moment. She's readying to leave, putting her bag on her shoulder.

"Does Jim think he killed me?" I ask finally, and her eyes find the tabletop. She doesn't speak for a minute or so, and pulls the bag onto her lap.

"He won't speak to anyone." She says at last, morosely. "He's just been laying there in bed all day. Won't eat. Wouldn't do his telephone interview.. Would you please let me fucking call him?"

I turn the phone between my fingers, and bite down on the inside of my cheek. It aches. My whole face aches. My whole fucking body aches. I realise now that Jim didn't try and kill me. Not properly, though he almost succeeded anyway. He didn't go for the throat. He always goes for the throat. Somehow, even if subconsciously.. he couldn't do it. 

 

"Ange." I say, my words resigned. I'm confident that Jim is alive, that he's alright for the moment. I have time, and she needs to know. I could use the help. I'm not sure I'm strong enough, alone. "I need to tell you something."

"..What?" She asks, wary again, hands tightening around her bag. I just shake my head.

"..Everything."

 

 

\--

 

I recite everything I know with a careful, tentative tone, aware from Ange's expression that she doesn't believe me. And why should she? She's been given a perfect story to believe, one that makes sense more than mine. She's known Rocky for years, too. Still, I see flickerings of unease on her face. See the way that she starts to think about things, and I feel exultant, just for that. Because there must be times when she's suspected something. When Rocky's disappeared to sort out Jim's messes, or Jim himself has appeared, covered in blood. And how eager Rocky was to cover up my death so quickly, and how convenient it was that Jim should just happen upon a knife.. Over the years, she must have trained herself to ignore the signs. But I won't let her, not anymore. 

  
"I don't  _understand_." She says after a long few moments of silence, our tea cold in front of us. Her words are frustrated, and she frowns at me, as if ordering me to take it all back. I answer with a calm question of my own.

"Where did you find Rocky? When you met him, what was he doing?"

Ange purses her lips and watches me, and I know she's torn. If she replies, it'll seem like she's going along with it. Like she believes me. She doesn't want to give that impression, not when she can still get out of this. When she can still walk back to her team, and resume business as normal. But she gives a minute shake of her head, and much to my relief, gives me an answer. Something has hit home, at least. 

"I'm just an agent from the label. He was already his manager.. And basically his bodyguard.."

"And before that?" 

"I didn't _know_ him before that. I've only known him with-"

"Yeah, I know," I interrupt, impatient, and she gives me a hard look. I have to force myself to calm down. "But.. did he say? Did he tell you where he came from, what he did?"

She thinks for a long moment, and then answers cautiously.

"I suppose the only time we've really talked about it is when I first met them.. Jim.. Jim came from a different label at first, had a different manager. And Rocky.. He said he started out by shadowing some other guy. That Jim was his first real client."

"Do you know the guy's name?" I ask slowly, and she grimaces, trying to remember.

"Dermot, I think. Somebody Dermot."

I rub at my eyes with the heels of my hands, and Jesus Christ, it's painful. The bruise on my cheek is from a newly flowering black eye. My words are resigned.

"De Motte." I say. "Is it 'De Motte'?"

"Yeah." She says, and taps on the edge of her mug with her fingers. "That was it. He only ever told me that once, though. At the start. And I've known him for years and years.."

Of course, I think. If De Motte already knew that Jim had a propensity for murder after his father, of course he'd realise that he was best suited to killing on his highs.. But if Jim wouldn't have anything to do with him.. He'd put Rocky onto him. To watch him, to groom him to join the business, whilst at the same time making millions from his tours and his fans. Having his men clean up his messes, until he was confident enough to recruit him. It's genius.. It's fucking terrible, and despicable. But genius. 

  
I think of De Motte, dead on the floor. Maybe Rocky got too full of himself, got too smug. Maybe De Motte came to take Jim back, take the money and the murderous potential all for himself. All it would take was one phone call from Rocky; one boastful, bragging call. And Jim's anger, and that damn drug. Rocky, putting him on double the high, ready for De Motte's appearance. It's the closest thing to a guaranteed kill that he could have had. And we fell right into it.

 

For a moment, I think about Jim's victims. Or most specifically, the ones that Rocky would bring straight to the dressing room. Like Lorna, the girl I managed to save. I have a sneaking suspicion that they weren't just 'random'. If Rocky and De Motte were working hand in hand in some crime business.. What's to say that Jim's kills weren't orchestrated?

The mother, daughter, sister, wife or even son of a target. Of a 'mark'. Placed appetizingly into Jim's path. Everyone's a fan, after all..

 

I resignedly tell Ange my theory about De Motte and Rocky, slipping in the tale of De Motte's death, only a couple of nights ago.

"I wondered why they redid the carpet." She breathes in horror, and puts her hands in her hair, propping her elbows on the table. I feel a flutter of relief at the thought that she's coming round to the idea. That she's taking it in, realising what's been going on, and what's happened. How I nearly died, and why it had to be that way.

 

"But.. but why did he have to kill you?" She asks, looking up at me bemusedly after a moment, and I sigh. 

 

"Because I stopped him from killing on his highs. And he wouldn't kill me, even when we.." I pull a face. "..Fulfilled the first part of his.. pattern. I got in the way."

I have to tell her two or three more times, explaining various points, making sure she realises how it all fits in. She's in a state of shock, fingers white in her red hair as she stares down at the table, her mouth drawn in a tight frown.

 

"All this time.." She says, in unhappy disbelief. "He was killing people." She looks up at me. "Killing people, Seb! Young girls!"

We're in a danger zone. She looks angry, and I tighten my fingers on her phone, worried that she'll call the police. Not that I think that they'll find anything. De Motte's men - Rocky's men - are probably fucking thorough. But he doesn't need the extra attention.

"I know," I say carefully, "I know that, Ange. And it's wrong, of course it is. Inexcusable. But he doesn't  _know_  any other way. And I've been helping him, really I have. He's.. messed up."

"Is he even sorry?" She asks, the words in a grimace, and I answer honestly.

"..Sometimes. And.. don't forget, Rocky encourages this. Always has done. Points him in the direction of bars, or brings girls right to him. Planting the victims. Jim doesn't know any other way. I can help him. But he's in trouble, now. I need to get to London."

"The coach hasn't left yet." Ange says, before checking her watch and swearing. "I have to go." She says, but she stands and looks at me uncertainly. "..What.. what the hell am I supposed to do now?"

 

"Whatever Rocky's planning, it'll happen tonight." I say, frowning. I can't imagine how Jim feels right now. As much as I don't want to flatter myself, I know that he liked me at least as much as I liked him. And that if he thinks he killed me, he'll be hating himself. Trying to accept that he's a monster, that I betrayed him, that he doesn't deserve love or trust.

"If Rocky offers him a new way.." I continue slowly, "If he leads him gently in that direction.. Killing for money.. I mean, he can't reveal that he was behind it all, because Jim would just fall apart, thinking he'd killed me wrongly. But if he just.. makes the suggestion. Pretends that he's helping him cope, or some shit like that.."

"And Jim'll agree?" Ange asks resignedly. I nod. 

"Yeah." I say. "Yeah, I think he will. If you say he's pretty broken up.. I think he'll take any alternative to a new tour."

 

Ange helps me up from where I sit, and I wince, a hand slipping to my bandaged stomach.

"And you're not gonna let that happen?" She asks, and I shake my head.

"No. No, I'm not."

To be honest, I'm just relieved that she believes me at last, when all the evidence initially pointed in the other direction. Even if I can't get through to Jim, it's someone on my side, though I'm not expecting what she says next.

 

"I won't either." She squeezes my arm. "I don't.. agree with what he's done, but you're right." She grimaces, and folds her arms across her chest, rubbing at her shoulders uneasily. "If.. if it's Rocky.. he has to be stopped. He's completely taken advantage of him."

"No, Ange. You just.. you try and stay safe, yeah? The second he knows that you're not part of his story anymore, you'll be gone. Next on his list. Or Jim's." 

Ange punches my shoulder, and I wince.

"Don't be an idiot." She says firmly, holding the cafe door for me. "You need all the help you can get. You're half dead already, Seb. Jesus, I feel sick.."

I follow her out of the cafe, fumbling in my bag for a jumper, and she has to help me tug it on. It's pathetic, and my cheeks burn red, my stomach throbbing agonisingly.

"I'll get the train to London." I say gruffly, and she nods, handing me a card from her purse.

"It's for the O2 Arena. Swipe card. I'll say I lost mine and get another. The coach leaves in twenty minutes, so I have to run back-"

I grab her arm, fixing her with a look.

"Play it cool." I warn. "I mean it.. if he thinks you're onto him.."

She pulls herself free. "Yes, I know. Look after yourself, you idiot." Her fist finds my arm again, hard, and I frown, rolling my eyes. "That was for not telling me in the fucking first place." She says angrily, jabbing a finger at me.

But then she hugs me, slides her arms around me, and I lean into it, despite the ache that moving gives me. She believes me. Ange believes me, and she's going to help me. Whatever that entails.

"Please be careful." She says against my shoulder. "If you're right.. and Jim killing you was like.. a final initiation or something.. then the moment you arrive, healthy and living..-"

"He'll go for Jim." I say quietly. "Yeah, I know."

The thought is terrifying. We've barely even brushed the surface of what Rocky is capable of. I feel cold all over, and Ange pulls back at last, the two of us exchanging a rather determined, half-fearful look, before she turns and hurries away.

 

When she's out of sight, I lift my bag onto my shoulder with a rather stuttered groan that I don't let past my lips. Fucking hell, I need painkillers. But adrenaline and determination will have to do for now.

 

Forcing back a wince with each step, I make my way to the train station.

 

\--

 


	21. Show Time

After about ten minutes walking in what I assume is the direction of the train station, I can't do any more. It's pathetic. I have to set down my bag and lean, wheezing against a wall, clutching at my stomach. I tip my head back against the bricks, and concerned eyes settle on me as passing walkers hover, wondering if they should help. I wave them away, bending down again to haul my bag onto my shoulder, though I grunt in pain as I do so and stagger, defeatedly, into the road. A few minutes later, and I've managed to hail a cab.

 

It takes less than five minutes for the guy to drive me to the station, and Jesus, I feel like an idiot. 

"You don't look so good, mate." He tells me, and I just frown, tossing a few quid at him and climbing from the car with a wince. I drag the bag behind me, and within a long few minutes, I'm standing at a ticket office, trying to get the fucker to tell me the closest train station to the O2 Arena. I'm leaning my head on my arms, my stomach just fucking dragging and throbbing, and the man behind the desk finally relents, booking me onto the train to Charlton. It leaves in a few minutes, and I swear, I almost don't make it. I snatch my ticket, go to the nearest shop, and buy about six boxes of paracetamol, the strongest painkiller they have. 

 

I pop four or five at once, swallowing them with a bottle of water and a bite of one of those shitty, packaged sandwiches as I'm climbing onto my train. Sitting down drags a groan from me, and the woman sitting across the aisle looks over, wide eyed. It's a three hour journey, with a tube ride in the middle. I take another morose bite of my sandwich and wait for my drugs to kick in, wishing I had something stronger. The sandwiches - my diet for the past damn week - remind me of Jim, and I can't help thinking about him. Wondering if he's still curled up on his mattress. Or maybe mine. Still refusing to eat, or speak to anyone.

 

Maybe Ange can get through to him, even if she can't tell him anything just yet. I can't risk Jim knowing anything. If he denies Rocky outright, the bastard'll try and hurt him. And I'm three hours away. I know Jim can defend himself, but he doesn't suspect Rocky.

 

None of us did.

 

\--

 

The hours drag, minute by minute, and the drugs aren't working. I don't know why I'm surprised. They're just paracetamol. Jim's teasing little song flits through my mind, the one he sang that day on the coach, forcing me to drag him into my lap. It makes me smile, even if it fades after a few seconds. 

 

 I put my booted shoes up on the seat, and try to force myself to sleep, though the throb of my stomach and my worrying about Jim keeps me awake. I'm half tempted to text Ange, to ask her what's going on, to tell her to make him eat something.. But I don't. If Rocky saw her phone, and acted rashly.. I shiver at the thought. This is fucking unbearable.

 

After a couple hours, I drag my bag from the train, and I'm in London. I force my way through the tube station crowds, flashing my train ticket at the inspector, and he lets me through, leaving me to grunt and wince my way to the carriage. I get a seat somehow, because they're all fucking looking at me like I'm going to explode. I don't care. I'm just thinking about Jim.

 

Is he readying for his last show? Sitting up in bed, and morosely strumming his guitar? It's too early for him to be in the arena, yet. I wonder about Rocky, too. Is  _he_  fucking readying for the show? For whatever he's got planned; asking Jim to join him, or gently leading him towards a fucking.. massacre, maybe? I'm no expert, but I'd say there's no turning back, after you've massacred.

 

I make my way stiffly from the tube and station, and onto my next and last train. I'm put behind a family of four this time, and the two children are speaking loudly, amused squeaks that give me a headache, and have me rubbing at my brow after five minutes. I start tapping on the tray table impatiently, unable to cope with so much fucking waiting, especially when I know Jim's in danger. I know I should be thinking about this logically. Trying to come up with some sort of plan, but thinking about it at all just fucking panics me, and that's no use to me when I'm sitting static for hours.

 

Finally - fucking finally - I arrive at Charlton station, and I've got no fucking time to get on another tube train, or find a bus. I lug my bag into a taxi, and sit down with a heavy grunt, grasping at my bandages. The cab driver glances at me a little worriedly, and I force a smile.  
"O2. Drop me.. nearby." I manage, and then empty more tablets into my hand, downing them with more water and then splashing a little on my face. The effort of getting here has almost fucking done me in. I probably shouldn't be out of bed at all, but the thought of Jim keeps me going. This is my fault. I should have seen through Rocky. Should have questioned more.

 

It takes less than ten minutes, and then I'm dragging myself back out onto the pavement, chucking a few coins at the driver. I'm here. Back at the O2, where it all started. Where my mental fucking journey began.

 

There are fans beginning to mill around the entrance of the arena, and I check my watch. It's later than I thought, but then, I did only wake up from the afterlife at noon. And then talking to Ange, and that bloody journey.. Yeah, it's nearly show time.

 

I lug my bag over my shoulder, and head slowly for the towering arena. If it wasn't so ominous, it might feel like coming home.

 

\--

 

 

I walk straight into the front entrance of the arena, and into the men's toilets. I'll never get anywhere looking like this. I try and clean up my face a little, most of the dried blood taken care of by nurses at the hospital, but I wash in the sink, and run a hand through my hair. The shirt is next. It isn't even mine, and it doesn't fit right, and I can't stand wearing someone else's clothes. As daft as it is, I want to look better for Jim. I change into my own from my bag, and discard this one in the bin, feeling better almost instantly. I still don't look in great shape, but I look more like me. Feel more like me, too.

 

For a moment, I tug the collar back down, and just look at the carving. The 'M' against the skin, like a crimson tattoo. I ghost my fingers over the raised edges, and know that I'd take it all again. The pain of it, the pain of last night. If it means that he'll be alright. The man that I'd first thought of as just a smug little fucker. Sauntering, teasing little rockstar, all tight leather and taunting words. Now he's Jim. Just Jim. ..My.. Jim, I think, before chiding myself in front of the mirror. Sentimental fucker.

 

I lock the doors, and climb up onto the sinks - with a great deal of grunting, swearing and wincing as my stomach pulls. I put through two ceiling tiles with a flat fist, and within moments, I've shoved the bag up there, taking out my gun and putting it in my waistband, before replacing the tiles. I hardly want to carry that lumbering thing around with me, after all.

 

I jump down, and have to lean against the wall for a moment to recover after the slam into the ground, my body aching and throbbing. This is just fucking.. pathetic. So what if I was in surgery ten hours ago? I can't deal with my body like this. Strength is all I know.

 

Stomach still throbbing raggedly, I head out of the arena, and go cautiously around to the back, the barriers up and already thick with fans. They all scream his name, wear his t shirts and brandish his CDs, and I hang back around a corner, poking my head out every now and then, to check that he's not there. Or Rocky, or Ange. It's so fucking strange, being on this side of it all, after so long being in the centre. My heart thuds in my chest. I'm so close, and yet so fucking far.

 

I think about maybe trying to leave him some kind of letter, to try and explain everything, to text Ange to come and fetch it.. But I decide against it again. If I enrage Jim, then I risk him attacking Rocky. And Rocky's already made it clear that he'll end The Magpie if he refuses to join him, or if I'm alive. I've got to try and get him away from there, somehow. Get Jim away.

 

_Jesus, it'd be easier if you'd just killed me._

 

I swear under my breath as the coach door opens, and duck out of sight. I peek back after a moment, the fans' screaming rising to deafening proportions, and it's him. It's Jim, my Jim, my fucking Jim, with his hair tousled over his forehead, dressed in - is that my jumper from yesterday? Over his leather trousers.. Fucking Christ, he looks like hell.

 

His face is gaunt, unsmiling, and there's a darkness around his eyes that isn't eyeliner. He hasn't slept, then. He sways slightly as he walks, and his eyes might be red-rimmed too.. though it could be the light. For the moment, his friendly, bashful rockstar persona is gone. He doesn't smile at the fans, doesn't stop or sign a thing, just heads straight for the arena - with Rocky at his back, guiding him. I grimace as I see him, my blood boiling in my veins. He reaches out and squeezes Jim's shoulder comfortingly, and my hand closes around my gun. So tempting.. so.. fucking tempting.

 

They've disappeared into the arena before I can make up my mind. Rocky doesn't deserve a quick death, anyway, I decide in my chagrin. Ange hurries in after them, and I watch her. She looks around covertly, and I step out from behind the corner, Ange freezing when she sees me. She just gives a small, covert nod, and then disappears into the arena behind the pair.

 

I slide the gun back into the waistband of my trousers, and tug my shirt down over it. For a second, I'm glad that Ange didn't go through my bag before she brought it to me. Whilst she definitely likes the idea of Rocky being apprehended, I'm not really sure she likes the idea of him being murdered. Brutally. Painfully. Of course, that's what he's got coming to him. If I've got anything to say about it.. And I'm sure, when Jim knows the truth, he'll feel the same. I long to see that look on his face again, that maddening calm after he'd killed De Motte, wiping his knife on my trouser thigh.

 

I cut back around the corner, and find a maintenance door, slipping Ange's key card from my pocket. 

 

With a glance around, and a  _click, click, beep_ , I'm inside, and slipping silently down the corridor.

 

\--

 

I'm sneaking through the halls, though my loitering turns to a confident walk if anyone passes by, and after a long few minutes of reading the plaques on the doors, I duck into one titled 'SECURITY'. I'm expecting a barrage of beefy, angry men, but maybe they're all out as stewards tonight, because the only one here is a gruff, balding man who booms at me, looking up from where he sits in front of a plethora of CCTV monitors.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!"

Ignoring my stomach, I've paced over to him in two strides, gun drawn from my back, and he squeaks - actually squeaks - and holds up his hands. I want to let him go, but I just can't. He'll run and get help - I know the type. Instead I pistol whip him; slamming my gun into the side of his head hard, and sending him sprawling from his chair, out cold. Well, it's better than the alternative. Pursing my lips, I slip the weapon away and sit down, eyes skimming over each of the monitors - when Jim appears. It's in the top left hand monitor, and he's leaving his dressing room, Rocky behind him, seemingly trying to comfort him.

 

Jim looks antsy. He's got his hands fisting in his hair, and is grimacing, closing his eyes as Rocky speaks to him, maybe trying to reassure him. It's fucking weird, watching this in silence, and my heart thuds, leaping in my chest as Jim turns around, and slams his manager into the wall by his shoulders. He shouts something at him, and Rocky shouts something back, before Jim paces back into the dressing room and slams the door. Rocky just shakes his head.

 

_Jesus Christ, Jim. Be careful. You don't know what he's capable of._

 

I hardly realise that I'm standing, that my hand has been on my gun again, ready to go and find them both, to put a bullet through Rocky's skull. I force myself back into the seat, and take out the phone, calling Ange. I can't take this any more.  I can see her on one of the bottom monitors, standing backstage with the stage manager, though she hurries away to answer the call when she checks the display.

"Seb?"

"I need you to tell him."

My words are resigned, but they're serious. It's getting closer and closer to show time, and I don't know what's going to happen afterwards. I'll keep Rocky away from him, but for now, Jim needs to know.

"What?" Ange demands a little fearfully, and I nod, despite her not being able to see me. I eye the man, unconscious on the floor.

"He's in his dressing room. You need to tell him everything, Ange. About me, about the letters, about the red ink and being framed.. That I'm alive, too."

Ange looks around covertly as she speaks into her phone.  
"..Why would he believe me?"

"You believed me, didn't you? When you had every reason not to. Just.. listen. Just, mention Dino."

"Who's Dino?"

"It's someone I told Jim about. He'll know that you've been speaking to me. That I'm alive. Mention Dino.. and tell.. tell him about the guitar stall, in the Manchester market. And.. tell him that his father didn't like music. And Jesus, Ange - for God's sake, don't let him go off on one. Not yet. Just.. keep him busy, and get him onto that stage."

She's quiet for a long few moments, taking it all in. I watch her on screen, see her close her eyes and compose herself, before glancing in the direction of Jim's dressing room.

"Right." She says at last, a touch more determined. "..Right, yeah. I can do that..  And.. what are you going to do?"

I stand with a wince and head slowly for the door, my eyes on Jim's monitor, on the image of the wall where he and his motherfucker of a manager have just been standing. My hand finds the door handle.

"I'm going after Rocky."

 

 

\--

 

 


	22. Make Him Pay

I head down the corridor coolly, though my heart has begun to thud in my chest. To take care of Rocky, I have to find the motherfucker first, and as I reach the back of the stage, I almost walk straight into Ange, en route to Jim's dressing room. We both stop for a moment, and she bites her lip, before reaching out and squeezing my shoulder. And then we're gone, continuing on to separate goals. I don't know which is the more important - but mine won't matter at all if I can't find him. I feel exposed out here now, just waiting for someone to come and cuff me, to escort me out or scream that I'm supposed to be dead. 

 

 

I look back morosely as Jim's dressing room door opens and closes, and Ange is gone. I'm resisting the urge just to run back there, to burst in and put my arms around him, to declare that I'm alive, and to tell him everything. But there's no time. I'm already out in the open, and if Rocky sees me, it'll be a race back to the Magpie, and I won't let him clip his wings.

 

I start asking around after a few long, tense minutes of searching - stage hands that recognise me, but don't realise that I've been sacked, tech members heading out to start the backtrack sound check. Nobody seems to know, and I'm beginning to get worried, anxious that he's seen me already - or that he's planning something bigger, something worse. Or that I've somehow missed him altogether, and he's in Jim's dressing room already, knocking seven bells out of him. I'm pacing down the hallway, my stomach throbbing and my hands running panickedly through my hair - when I see him. 

 

I finally fucking see him.

 

He's standing with his back to me at the end of the corridor, talking on the phone as he looks out of the window. Easy as anything. Like none of this is no consequence to him. Not my supposed death, not Jim's upset, and certainly not the show.

 

It takes me only a second of deliberation, and then I'm stalking towards him slowly, a tiger approaching unsuspecting prey. 

 

My gun remains untouched, and I turn, slowly lifting a heavy fire extinguisher from its wall bracket, and holding it aloft in my arms, my footsteps silent as I approach. The pain in my stomach fades into insignificance next to the adrenaline, next to the anger burning a searing hole in my chest, and I grit my teeth, waiting for what seems like years to get close enough, to wait for him to end the call. I'm lucky that there's no one around, that they're all prepping the set and the back of the stage. Would be inconvenient for someone to spot this, with no explanation. 

 

The moment he clicks that 'end call' button, the heavy red cylinder comes down on his head with a clang, and an accompanying grunt from me, and Jesus, it feels good. He staggers, and crumples to the ground like a sack of fucking potatoes as I watch, a grin slowly creeping onto my face. My heart soars with accomplishment, and I laugh, a quiet, exultant sneer on my lips.

 

 Got you, you mother fucker.

 

 

\--

 

 

When Rocky starts coming around, I've dragged him into the nearest room, which turns out to be some sort of staff room. There's a small kitchen in one corner, plush chairs and sofas scattered around, and a cluttered billboard that takes up almost an entire wall, as well as posters of old arena acts. There's one of Jim, but it must be from years ago. He wears the same leather trousers, but has some kind of thick black bondage straps over his chest, with huge, edited wings on his shoulders. His eyes seem to watch me from across the room as I sit Rocky onto a chair and tie his hands loosely with parcel string, and it's the incentive I need to get this done. 

 

He groans, and when he blinks himself into consciousness and looks at me, surprise flits across his face, quickly fading into a look of horror. Fucking hell, I love that. Seconds later, it's back into a composed calm. He barely even tries to prop himself against the seat, still fucking reeling from that hit with the fire extinguisher, and I just flash him a slow smile, rage simmering in my stomach.

"Thought you were dead." He grunts, and I shrug, before sauntering over to the kitchen area. "..Surprise." I answer simply.

 

I fill the kettle, and set it on to boil. I take the sharpest knives from the drawer, along with a pair of scissors, and set them out, lining them up on the counter. I take bleach from the cupboard, and stand it in pride of place, beside the knives. There's a plethora of cleaning products, but bleach ought to do the trick. It's an acquired taste, I'm sure, but Rocky deserves a little gourmet treat. God knows, he fucking deserves every second of this.

 

"Sebastian," He begins, voice low and somewhat urgent, though he's trying to keep that calm look on his face as he watches me arrange my tools. It's not working out well for him. "You don't know what you're doing. Who you're playing with.."

"Don't I?" I answer, raising my voice just a touch over the din of the boiling kettle. I was right. The gun was definitely too good for him. I push myself away from the counter, dragging the cluster of knives into my fist, and saunter towards where he sits, watching me eagle-eyed. "You gonna sic your men on me, Rocky?" I ask, my eyes wide with mock fear.

I was never planning on waiting for an answer. I let my fist fly hard into his jaw, his face snapping sideways, and he splits blood onto the floor, grunting in shock. "Mm?" I prompt, leaning close to his face, my own expression a grimace. "You gonna have them drug me, yeah? Take the coward's method, rather than _facing me like a man?_ "

I swipe the knife across his torso, a shallow arch of a cut that paints his grey shirt crimson, and drags an anguished yell from his chest, the sound lost in the sound of the boiling kettle, and the beat of one of Jim's songs in sound check. It's not a neat cut, but the pleasant, arching gash keeps him gasping and groaning for a few long moments, despite his pursed lips trying to hold back the sounds.  Oh it's sweet. It's so fucking sweet.

 

"You won't kill me." He spits at me, leaning forward where he sits, his face a gnashing grimace, though there's a calm in his expression somewhere, and it fucking irks me. "You can't kill me."

"Oh.." I give an amused smile, and turn the next knife between my fingers, watching it rather pleasantly. "You think so?" 

 

Without warning, I slam it down into his thigh, buried to the hilt. He gives an ear-splitting howl, arching up out of his seat, and I laugh, taking a few steps away jovially when I've pulled it free. He takes a few long minutes to come back from that one, and when he does, there's saliva dripping from his mouth as he breathes hard, his expression venomous. 

"He can't do it without me. I cover up the murders. Clean up his messes."

"Yeah." I nod, and tilt my head at him, giving a mock morose smile. "..Guess he'll just have to, won't he?" My fist finds him again, this time crunching into his nose, and sending a double spurt of blood onto the shirt, and dribbling into his mouth. His teeth are painted crimson as he bares them at me, thrashing in his bindings like a wild animal, and I laugh at him again, waiting for that calm to return. It does. Every time. It's fucking unsettling.

 

I slip my hand into his top pocket, and take out his phone, having slipped it back there when he fell from the hit. With gritted teeth and a bit of force, I snap it in two in front of his face, to show that there'll be no fucking 'phoning a friend' tonight. It's just me and Rocky, one on one, and Jesus, is he  _losing._

"And nice try.." I add, tossing the pieces aside and sauntering back to the counter, uncapping the bottle of bleach, and carrying it leisurely back over. "..But we both know he failed your little initiation anyway." I grasp his chin. "If he wanted me dead, he'd have slit my throat."

I bring the bottle closer and force open his mouth, but suddenly he's clawing at my hands, having snapped his bindings. I glance down, and sure enough, his wrists are red raw. Well now, we can't have that!

 

"You know," I say, and give an exasperated sigh, slamming the bleach bottle down onto the floor. "He'll probably be pissed off with me for killing you myself.." I make to turn away, and Rocky presses a hand to the wound on his thigh, trying to stem the bleeding. I'm back, turning suddenly and slamming my third knife down through said hand, and back into that same wound, keeping him there.

 

The sound he makes is inhuman, an animalistic and guttural howl that has me laughing, the bleach forgotten as I punch him in the face again, my own pain insignificant. Everything he's done.. Everything he tried to do. All these years, grooming Jim to join his murderous little clan, framing me to be his next victim, and near ruining him in the process. My fucking final resting place would probably have been the Thames.

 

No. No, he deserves every second of this. And I'm not removing that knife.

 

"This is the closest you're ever going to get to him." I hiss, pointing at the wall. "You're fucking done, Rocky. You're  _done_." 

 

My knuckles are already bloodied, but I can't resist hitting him again, just for the fucking injustice of it all. And again. And again. I turn, pacing back to the kitchen, and snatching the kettle from it's stand. His face is bloodied as fuck, and I'd like to see the damage that I'm doing. I'd never thought I'd enjoy something like this so much - and hell, it's so different to emptying a round of bullets into Dino. But I love it. The motherfucker deserves the most pain I can give him.

 

Jim's call goes out over the loud speaker, and I pause for a moment, eyes fixing on the wall. A door slams next door, and there are raised voices in the hall for a moment before fading away. It fills me with relief. Ange has got through to him - or is getting through to him, at least. And she's taking him to the stage. Where he's safe. Where he can finish his last show, and then we can get the fuck out of here. I wonder if he wants to see me, if he's desperate to finish the sets, to come and find me. I wonder if Ange has given him that exact incentive just to get him on the bloody stage. I hope so. 

 

But not my concern, right now. Right now, I need to make him safe. And make Rocky pay. And fuck, is he going to pay.

 

Snapping back to the present, I'm marching back over with the kettle, boiling hot steam rising out of the top of it, when my steps falter slightly. He's laughing. Rocky is laughing. I narrow my eyes, trying to register if that sound is truly what I'm hearing. Through the blood of his marred face, his one unstapled hand hanging limply by his side, just slumped calmly in his chair.. he's laughing. His eyes aren't even on me. He's just.. just fucking laughing.

 

I take two more steps, and swing the kettle forwards, scalding water slopping from the lid and onto his torso, his laughs suddenly interspersed with screams as he writhes. But the sound soon starts up again, bitter and faint, and I grit my teeth.

"Something funny?" I ask gruffly, tilting the kettle, and letting more scalding water dribble onto him, this time onto his scalp. He tries to cringe out of the way, still shrieking, though again, the laugh comes back a few moments later, weak and breathless. It makes me uneasy.

 

"Oh, Sebastian.." He says, the words teasing, even through they're strained through his agony. I think he tries to shrug, but his hand is stuck fast to his thigh, knife hilt sticking out and blood pooling beneath his fingers, dripping onto the floor. "It's too _late_."

 

Too late? Now I don't know what the fuck he's talking about, and it strikes me for a moment that he's probably just trying to play me for time, to extend his pathetic little life by just a few seconds. I laugh in his face, and then I punch him in his stomach, watching him jolt and scream, the force of the movement pulling the knife jaggedly further through his hand. Beautiful.

 

"What the fuck are you trying?" I demand, and send a forceful, backhanded slap to his cheek when he doesn't reply immediately, gasping and laughing and fucking swaying, bleeding all over the place. He spits blood onto the carpet, and smiles at me, those teeth still red.

"Do.. do you like my surprised face?" He asks me, his words lazy, as if he's drunk. He flashes me an expression of horror, mouth wide, his brows raised, and I frown, not understanding what he's fucking doing. Is this some kind of tactic? Does he still, somehow, think he can get out of this?

 

 I jolt the kettle forwards again, emptying near all of the boiling water onto his torso, and he writhes against the chair, screaming and thrashing where he sits. He falls forwards, onto his hands and knees, and I take a step back, before deciding against it, and kicking him.

 

He laughs again, and he's just fucking maddening, those breathless little huffs of laughter that don't make any fucking sense. He speaks again after a moment, and I stand, my fists clenched, grimacing down at him.

 

"..Did.. did you really think that I was the only one? That.. I wouldn't have men stationed fucking everywhere? That they wouldn't see you?" He flashes another red smile, and I frown, not sure what he's saying. My fingers tighten around the empty kettle. "Hiding behind the barriers? Or.. sneaking into _security,_  Sebastian?"

His crimson smile becomes venomous and knowing, and something cold creeps into my stomach. Realisation takes a long few seconds to hit me, and when it does, the kettle clatters to the floor, ice seeping into my veins.

He knew I was here. He's known I was here since I arrived.

 

_But.. but why is Jim still alive?_

 

Rocky crawls, and then drops back to sit on his arse, leaning back against the wall as he bleeds, and finally pulls the knife from his thigh, having already torn through his hand. He's still laughing, bitter and breathless, and I watch him with a kind of dumbstruck horror, heart skittering in my chest.

"I.. thought.." Rocky says, his words slow and amused through his strained agony, his breaths rattling. "..It might be more.. more  _poetic_ , this way.. One gunman."   He drags a hand across his mouth and nose, mopping away a fraction of the blood. My heart is racing as I watch him, faint nausea in my stomach.  "Live..  Live for the fans,  _die_  for the fans.. eh?"

A heavy stone plummets into my gut. On stage. He's talking about on stage. 

_No._

All this time. All this time, he's been expecting my every move. Distracting me. Oh, no, no. Fuck, no..

I turn for the door, my hand already wrenching the handle and tearing it open, Rocky's laughs fading away behind me.

 

 I hear the bastard's last words, taunting as they're called behind me, as though we're old friends. As though I haven't just beat him half to death. He's got someone pinned on Jim, ready to take him out. And it's all my fault. He saw me. I've endangered Jim. And to think, I  thought I'd won. I throw myself down the corridor, terrified and raging.

 

 

_"No high tonight, eh Seb?"_

 

 

\--

 

 

 


	23. Curtain Call

Everything seems to go in slow motion as I leave the room, running down the corridor and feeling like I'm wading through thick water. My heart is slamming hard in my throat and I can't breathe, the pain from my stomach forgotten in my panic. It ticks in front of my eyes, a pulse, a need, a beat that matches the one on stage. _Jim. Jim. Jim._

 

 

Rocky's words echo in my ears, and I tug my gun from my waistband, pushing through the crowds of people backstage unceremoniously. I shoulder barge, absolutely force my way through, and I knock Ange clean over as she tries to stop me, obviously not having a clue what's going on. I throw myself onto the stage, and everything is loud - the roar of the biggest crowd that Jim has played yet, enthralled as I dash on wielding a gun, the blood flecks on my clothes visible on the HD screens. The stage lights are blinding me, and flashes go off in the audience, thousands of people excitedly taking photos of us.

 

  
"Sebastian?"

Jim's voice is loud, my name uttered into his microphone and echoing around the arena, his voice a mixture of bemusement and horror. I can't even look at him right now. I just push him hard behind me, an arm outstretched, my gun pointed outwards. Jesus fucking Christ, if he's a sniper, he could be anywhere in this fucking arena and still get a clean shot..

"Ange talk to you?" I ask loudly, my voice flat as I try and shout over the music, not looking at him. I'm scouting the crowd, the private boxes that I can see, and the tech stand before the stage. Jim just nods, still looking around alarmedly as if trying to figure out what's going on at this precise moment, though he's tense, ready to leap into action. Thankfully, he seems to trust my judgement, and stays behind me. The audience is seemingly starting to register that this isn't some kind of act, and the roar is dulling a little, thousands and thousands of anxious eyes on us. The tech team, directly in front of the stage, have all but scarpered, the men and women screaming at the sight of the gun and rushing off, seats left empty, the music left blaring and the lights flashing in frantic rhythms.

"What's going on?" Jim demands into his microphone, his hand wrapping around my arm as I move, pointing my gun into the audience and then the wings of the stage, meeting the horror-struck eyes of the stage hands.

 

  
"Rocky." I yell back simply, not letting him sap my focus, though it's fucking hard. My heart is still pounding against my ribs as I throw around the gun, trying to get a line on him, to spot the man that could have Jim in his crosshairs from across the arena. But no.. I think Rocky's cockier than that.

 

 

"Seb?" Jim prompts, his voice authoritative for a moment, demanding to know what the fuck is going on. His hand tightens on my arm.

 

 

And then I see it - out of the corner of my eye, even with the panicking, roaring crowd, with Jim hanging onto me, and with the lights and the fucking music depriving me of my senses. I see it. I see  _him_.

 

 

The man sits in the tech area, seemingly innocent behind the lighting desk. His face is half in silhouette, and he looks distinctly younger than the guy that sat at that desk the last time we were in London. I don't even know how I remember that, but I do. And it isn't him. Not to mention, he's the only fucking one left in the box, the others having run at the sight of the weapon. If he had any sense, he would have run too, just to cover his own back, though if I hadn't looked down at that moment, I would have missed the glimpse of him. He slips from his chair the second our eyes meet, and I get a snatched glance at his gun as he falls into the mess of the crowd, people beginning to make for the exits in frenzied groups. 

"Fuck-" I push Jim behind me again, moving along the stage, and if it wouldn't expose him for even a few seconds, I'd push him into the wings. "He's there - Get down!"

 

 

 Jim's hands are hovering at my waist, and I'm basically his fucking human shield. No skin off my nose. I mean - isn't that exactly what I signed up for? Even if 'bodyguard' is to be taken literally.. I don't care. I'll protect Jim any fucking day of the week. This fucker'll have to shoot holes in me before he gets to him. Just one shot, and I'll know where he is. And as long as it isn't a head shot, I'll end him outright. 

"It's okay." I soothe breathlessly, and the words sound fucking stupid even to my own ears. Of course it's not fucking okay. There's a gunman darting between the crowds, and I'm Jim's only protection from the motherfucker. But it's what he needs to hear. Hell, it's what I need to hear. To compose myself. Of course he calls me out on it, his voice the same - if anxious - drawl, his hands resting at my back.

"You're so fucking stupid.."

I give a half smile at his words, and glance back, making sure he's still suitably behind me. The gun man chooses that second to take his chance, and my focus snaps back into place as I spot him at the right second, lifting his shooting arm just a fraction, everything in slow motion again as he aims at Jim. I have a clear line of sight for a couple of seconds, maximum. He'll be swallowed by the crowd. He'll be able to hide, to take the shot seamlessly. It has to happen now.

A single gunshot sounds.

 

 

Screams go up, the audience exploding into a frenzy of terror, people forcing themselves, twenty at a time, through the emergency exits, the backing track still playing, and building up to a crescendo. As the crowd clears out just a little, they reveal the gunman's body, crumpled and downtrodden on the floor. There's a perfect bullet hole through his forehead, eyes wide and staring, and I lower my gun, giving a laugh that's thick with relief and thanking bloody fuck for the army.

 

 

\--

 

 

I barely have chance to turn to Jim before he's on me, throwing himself at me, my gun going skittering off into the wings. I fold my arms around him and kiss him, feel the exultant exhilaration at his fingers in my hair, at the leather clad legs wrapping themselves around my waist.  Jesus, we could be in a film. Jim's no damsel in distress, but I saved his life. I did. I just.. saved his fucking life.

 

He's alright. He's okay. 

 

"You're such a fucking idiot." He repeats, half-angry words muffled against my shirt and arms in a vice grip around my shoulders as I set him back on his feet. My hands wrap around his back, closing my eyes as I hold him there, a daft grin on my lips as we just stand, his heart still pounding against mine. It's sheer relief. Sheer, fucking, relief. That could have gone so fucking horrifically wrong.

"Yeah?" I murmur amusedly in reply, and he kisses me again, rough and needing. When he finally leans back a little and looks at me properly, anguish flits over his features for a moment.

"I could have _killed_ you." He says, grazing his fingers over the bruise flowering on my cheekbone, but I just shake my head.

"It wasn't your fault."

He punches me in the stomach, his fist petty and light. It isn't even that painful a hit, but I'm forced to release him, half doubling over to press a hand to the throbbing drag of agony that engulfs me, though I laugh raggedly at his horrified expression.

"I'm fine.. just.. You owe me a little..recovery time."

We're still half shouting over the music, the crowd still screaming in a deafening roar as they rush for the exits, the show lights flashing wildly around us. You wouldn't know it. We're in our own world for a few minutes. Jim steps closer, and rests a tentative hand against my bandaged stomach in apology, and I accept it without him having to utter a word. He's safe. He's safe, now. We're safe, now. Relief helps the ache ebb, and I straighten again as he advances on me, his mouth pressing firmly to mine.

"I'm sorry.. I'm so.. I should have seen.." He says the words gruffly against my lips between frenzied kisses, and my hands fist in his feathered vest, pulling him to me, not caring about any of that now. It's over. It's all over.

 

 

Or, so I think.

 

 

I have my eyes closed, my cheek resting in Jim's hair as I hold him close, ignoring the madness around us.. But I open them for the fraction of a second... and I see him. His face is bloodied and half mashed, shirt hanging from his bulky body in crimson tatters. He staggers, dragging one leg behind him as he walks, his expression an utter grimace of blind rage and a maddened need for vengeance. Anger burns in my stomach again, and I bare my teeth.

Rocky.

 

  
" _Rocky_!" I roar, and push Jim aside again, standing in front of him, but he's quicker to react than I think. The Magpie's expression changes from the peaceful relief of moments ago, to sheer, unadulterated fury as he lays eyes on his manager, and he's throwing himself across the stage with a scream of indignity, bolstered by his high. I don't even have the chance to grab hold of him, merely staggering over, as he slams into him, a blur of skin and leather and black feathers.

 

 

He takes Rocky down easily, the man already half dead as he struggles under Jim's hold, the rockstar straddling him on the stage as he hits him. Jim's punches are hard and merciless, and he smashes his fists into Rocky over and over again, his expression one of wild, terrifying outrage. Even over the music, I can hear the slams of his knuckles into the man's skin, his face snapping from side to side, and again, and again, and again. I don't move. I just watch, dumbstruck, ready to intervene. I enjoy watching the life fade from Rocky's eyes, enjoy hearing the violent battle cries that escape Jim's throat as his hands become bloodied. I was right, I think. If I'd killed him by myself, Jim would have been pissed. He needs this. Needs to end him himself, after the years of deception.

 

 

At long last, he wraps his hands around Rocky's throat and begins to strangle him, the manager's skin gradually reddening beneath the drying blood, his hands scrabbling at the stage, at Jim's leather trousers, at anything he can reach. I watch, transfixed as his eyes begin to bulge, as his face flushes impossibly red. The stage hands have all scarpered, the crowd behind us still hurrying desperately to escape through the exits, and I just watch, aware that this is the one true murder - the one that neither Jim or I will ever regret. Even if it'll take a fuck load of explaining. Jim looks back at me, and I smile.

 

 

I'm so caught up in the passion of the moment, in the fucking honour and vengeance of Jim's killing, that I almost miss it. 

 

Almost miss the metallic glint of Jim's blade as Rocky's scrabbling, flailing hand tugs it from the rockstar's pocket, and swings it up in an arc, slamming it into Jim's neck. 

 

 

\--

 

 

The second the knife is buried in Jim's skin, another gunshot sounds, and Rocky falls slack, his hand falling limply back onto the stage. I barely register that it's Ange who's pulled the trigger; that she's picked up my gun at the side of the stage, and rushed to help. 

 

 

I barely register anything, after that moment. After that split second.

 

_"NO!"_

 

 

It's amazing, how your life can change.

 

 

The sound is a guttural, ragged howl from my throat, and I dive for them both, Jim still looking at me like he was a few seconds ago, just a few seconds ago. 

 

 

His expression very slowly becomes different, a crease between his brows as his eyes become disoriented, a bloodied hand coming to clasp shakily at his neck, the blood pouring from between his fingers. 

 

 

I tug him away from Rocky, and he half falls into into my arms. I press my hand hard to the wound, my heart thundering in my chest as I begin to yell at him, incoherent, gruff pleading that has him blinking up at me, brown eyes wide in a kind of blind disbelief. His lips are parted, opening and closing as a rattling breath leaves him - I can't even hear it, I.. I just  _feel_  it, my hand pressed to his gushing throat.

"Jim.. Jim. Please.." I'm saying, and Ange is screaming, screaming for help and for ambulances, but Jim's gaze is growing distant, even as I watch him. There's blood on his lips.

 

 

"I'm here. I'm here. Jim.. Come on.. I'm here."

 

He blinks lazily, and smiles up at me at my words.  He slowly extends a hand and runs limp and bloodied fingers over my cheek. I lean into them a little desperately, my mouth turned tight downwards into a trembling frown, eyes flitting between his. I shake him. I try and force him to focus.

_"Jim."_

 

 

This can't be happening. It just can't.. It's a bad dream. A nightmare.. I'm still in the hospital. Still unconscious. I must be.

 

 

 It's all gone wrong. This can't happen to us, not now, not when everything was so.. was just about to.. we were so close..

 

"Jim.."

I cradle him in my arms, warm blood seeping slowly through my fingers as the stage vibrates beneath us from the pounding music. From his songs. His music around us, rocking him to sleep. The lights illuminate us, the two screens beside the stage broadcasting us to the entire arena, the both of us bloodied and shaking as I sway with him, eyes fixed on his own. There's a roaring in my ears, and I start singing, that stupid, useless fucking song that he sang to me on the stage that night, smirking at me from his guitar. My words are thick and pitiful, and they're wrong, all wrong. I rock with him, my cheeks wet. I'm trying my best. I'm trying my best, Jim.

 

 

The song cuts out, and scrabbling, urgent hands try and pry him away from me.

\--

 


	24. Life Goes On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Art by hippano](http://hippano.tumblr.com/)

 

 

A week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty eight hours. Ten thousand and eighty minutes since I held Jim in my arms, and I've ached for every single one of them. I stare, blank and numb, at the wall of my flat. It's what I've been doing for the majority of those hours, and I swear, I could tell you about every crack, every stain, every inch of uneven paint.

 

Just like I could tell you about each of Jim's freckles. About that slow, sad smile slipping from his lips, about his blood, still warm and staining my clothes as I was hauled away by the police, neither Ange or I even allowed to go in the ambulance with him. Held for murder, and manslaughter. I didn't care what they did with me. I watched on the screen in the station reception, as his grinning face appeared, smiling and waving to fans. It was an old clip, the red runner at the bottom announcing breaking news. The newscasters announced his death with grim expressions, and I collapsed, roaring, swiping papers from the police desk as I fell onto the floor, disbelieving, pained groans of anguish leaving me. Ange just stood in her cuffs, sobbing beside me, unable even to reach out and press a hand to my shoulder.

Right now, she pushes a mug of warm coffee into my hands, closing her fingers around them for a few moments. She's just arrived. 

"How you holding up?" She asks me, quietly. As if she even needed to ask. I just give a small shake of my head. We've both been released from custody, pending the high profile investigation. Forbidden from leaving London. They're heavy charges. Manslaughter. Murder. Ange's is all my fault. With my gun, for Christ's sake. Shooting the man that I should have killed hours before. I'm going to try and take some of the weight from her charge, pin it on myself. Get her back out there, back into the world. She deserves to live.

 

I half wish we lived in America. If I could get a death sentence, I could be on my way to join him.

There's a police officer coming over today to take more statements. Probably to check that ours don't conflict. We decided on a story together, obviously unable to share some of the.. finer details of Jim's work. We're saying that Rocky was threatening him, that he tried to kill him. Well.. there's.. no 'tried' about it. He succeeded, I tell myself, and feel sick.

Ange is watching me, and I take a sip of the coffee just to placate her. I don't even taste it. She's been spending most of the days here, and I'm not sure if it's for her benefit or mine. She forces me into the shower, and she helps me change the bandages on my stomach. She puts a plate of food down in front of me every evening, and tries to pretend that she isn't worried when only a few bites disappear. I appreciate that she's trying. But the truth of the matter is, I just don't fucking want to be here. I'd give anything to have back those stale sandwiches. To be with him again, sitting on that godawful coach, listening to him play songs on his guitar.

 

She doesn't let me have the TV on. He still dominates every channel - eyewitness reports describing a man on stage, flailing a gun around. Stagehands, coming forward to discuss what they know about us, what they'd learned, from working with us. The police won't comment. They keep dragging the questions back to Rocky, and his gunman. Did anyone see what happened? If any witnesses want to call this number.. I grimace. As if any of that matters, now. I failed Jim. He should still be here, scoffing at the news broadcasts, and lounging on my sofa, leather clad legs hanging over the arm. 

 

Ange brings me back to the present, sitting down at the kitchen table opposite me with a steaming coffee of her own.

"You know," She says quietly. "He wouldn't want us to be doing this. He'd want us to go on, and have a life. To do things."

What lives? I think bitterly. Within the month, we'll both likely be in jail. I just nod with a half-smile, not wanting to upset her. She thinks that I don't see her; that I can't see the red rims around her eyes, that I don't hear her crying when she disappears to the toilet for half an hour. I know she's ashamed. That she's crying for two people. Not only Jim, but the Rocky she thought she knew. The friend that she'd never really had.

"Maybe you should try and get some sleep?" She adds, and I shrug, taking another sip of the coffee. I've barely slept since it happened. I can't. Too many things swirl behind my eyelids. His blood, coating my clothes. His eyes, fixed on mine, widening in surprise as the knife sank unexpectedly into his skin. His limp, bloodied fingers stroking my cheek, as if he was comforting me and not the other way around.

 

No. No, I can't sleep.

 

It doesn't matter anyway, because that fucker police officer is here to take our second statements. Ange stands, straightening her blouse as the knock comes, but I clear my throat as she heads to the door. My voice is gravelled from lack of use, and she looks back in surprise, pausing with her hand on the door knob.

  
"Remember.. He was threatening.. threatening him with his conquests. Tried to kill him and stuck a hit on him. We both intervened. No other choice. Got it?" My words are dull, lifeless, but Ange nods nervously, opening the door and inviting the man inside. 

"D.I Adamson?" She squeaks, and I purse my lips. She's terrible at lying. I just need to get her off this charge, and have her safe. And then I don't care what the fuck happens to me. It's the only reason I'm trying. I sit up a little straighter. The man nods in greeting. "Drink?" Ange asks, and he shakes his head.

"If we could all just have a seat.." He says, words calm and authoritative, and I grimace, leaning back in my chair and staring down into my coffee. I'm not in the mood for this. I don't want this. My statement isn't going to fucking change. Ange hurries back to sit down opposite me, and Adamson turns back to close the door. At least, I think that's what he's doing. For a second, he just holds it, and I frown, watching him with disinterested irritation. Someone else walks inside, and I frown, aware that I don't own more than three mugs, if this new fucker wants coffee - and it takes a moment, just a moment of delayed shock for me to register that it isn't a policeman at all. Isn't Adamson's partner.

 

Ange's gasp speaks for both of us.

 

"Did you miss me?"

 

\--

 

His words are a low, careful rasp, which ties in with the heavy bandaging on one side of his throat. He's wearing a suit, artfully fitted, but nothing like the leather or oversized jumpers that I'm used to seeing him in. His hair is slicked back, and there's just a hint of the eyeliner around his eyes, just enough to let me match him to the image in my head. To my Jim. 

I'm half out of my seat without realising it, having risen slowly, a hand splayed flat on the table as I stare at him, dumbstruck. My heart slams into my ribs, and I falter for words, mouth opening and closing in my disbelief. It's not real. It's not real. I'm dreaming. 

"..You're.. you're..!?" Ange cries out, the words a half ragged shriek as she stands, staring in bemused horror at the man that stands across from us. Jim's eyes are fixed on me, and have been since he stepped inside the room. Jim.. It's.. He's.. I can't believe it. He isn't. His blood, dripping onto my clothes..

His gaze, those wide brown eyes, are enough to drag a fractured sound from my lips, and I stagger back, pressing a hand to the chair, my knuckles white.

"Coates." Jim says, in that same throaty rasp, though his words are authoritative. "..Get Sebastian a glass of water."

'Coates' - not D.I Adamson after all - heads over to the tap. Ange watches him, disbelieving, but I only have eyes for Jim. He holds my gaze, and only now I notice something a little tentative in the way he holds himself. He takes a hesitant step closer to me, and the fucking relief begins to hits me like a train again and again, fizzling down into my stomach, a warmth that burns with incredulous anger. He's alive.

 

"..A week, Jim." I breathe at last, the first words I've said to him. "You.. you weren't.. A.. a week, for fuck's sake.. it's.. it's been.."

Hell. It's been literal, burning, aching  _Hell._

A sound escapes his lips as I watch, and it's an anguished little sigh, a crease between his eyes telling me that he knows. The pursed lips telling me that he didn't have a choice. His expression is worried, and it melts me a little, aware that he was probably expecting rage. We stand motionless for a few moments, a silent face-off. He's waiting, cautious, for my move. 

 

At long last, I say the only thing that flits into my mind. The only thing I want to ask, as my eyes flick to Coates and then back to Jim's bandaging, and to the slight uncertainty behind his eyes.

"Are you okay?" 

 

The quiet, broken shake of my voice seems to snap something in Jim, and before I know it, he's barreling into me, throwing himself at me, his arms clamping tight around my shoulders, fingers digging into the skin. My own are just as fast, sliding hard around his waist, leaning down to rest my face into the new suit, my eyes screwed shut.  "I'm dreaming.." I say gruffly in disbelief, holding him, the sounds muffled into the fabric. "..I'm.. this isn't real.. it's not real.."

"It's real." He says simply, that same rasp against my chest. I can feel my heart beating against his, feel his chest, heaving through each breath, and my arms tighten around him. He's alive. He's so fucking alive. He's alive, and he's here, and he's in my arms. Jim. 

"Jim.." I say, his name just breathed in quiet, anguished shock. Ange is still standing, staring at us, her eyes wide and mouth open, Coates nudging her and passing over a glass of water. I just squeeze him tight. Impossibly tight. He doesn't turn to dust beneath my fingers. He doesn't fade away. Because those dreams have been there, when I've managed to sleep. No.. He's here, he's really here. Jim is alive.

I take a ragged long breath, and speak against his hair, the words quietly stupefied.

"You.. you've got a lot of.. of fucking.. explaining to do.."

 

\--

 

And so we sit down.

 

Jim looks out of place on my battered sofas, but I figure that he'd look out of place anywhere right now. He's supposed to be dead. He's been dead, for a week. I felt the life seeping from him as he laid in my arms, knowing that he was going, that he was leaving me. Singing to him, my voice shaking, thick and tuneless in my premature grief. I can't.. I just.. can't believe it. 

 

He can't seem to keep away from me, either. He sits close, draping his legs over my lap like he did before on the coach, his fingers twining into my hair and stroking my cheeks as he speaks, eyes flitting to mine every other second. Ange sits opposite, and the two of us listen as best we can in our state of shock. Coates walks idly around the flat, seemingly trying to give us privacy.

Jim tells us that he woke up, alone and with no idea where he was. That he can't remember being in an ambulance, but that he was in a private room in a hospital, his neck bandaged, and a pad of doctor's notes to the side of him. That he read that he'd had an emergency intubation, followed by trauma surgery and a heavily sutured trachea. That when a doctor finally came to see him, he was told that he was a lucky case - incredibly so. That just a few centimentres in any direction, and the blade would have severed an artery, or paralysed him for life. 

 

"He didn't call me 'Jim'," He recounts, in his quiet, steady rasp, "And he wouldn't look me in the eye. And moments later, three men arrived.." His eyes flick to Coates, and the man is biting into an overripe apple from my fruit bowl, one of Ange's attempts to get me to eat. He gives us a half-jovial salute of a wave, and Jim rolls his eyes. I slide my arms around his waist from behind and pull him up to sit between my legs, still unable to believe that he's really here. I rest my forehead at the nape of his neck, just inhaling that same familiar scent, my arms tight around him. He runs a comforting hand over the arms crossing over at his waist.

 

"They handed me this." He continues, and slips a hand into his breast pocket, drawing out a small business card. He holds it there, and I eye it from over his shoulder, Ange frowning at me, unable to read it. I read it aloud quietly, for her benefit.

_' In the event of the death of the previous first-in-command, the chosen second will be contacted via this card. In verbally accepting this card, the second waives any and all right to any previous identity, real or implied, and fully accepts the duties and responsibilities of first-in-command in perpetuity to which some time the new first becomes unable to do so, by either accident or design. He or she must prematurely elect his or her elected second, of whom will receive a card upon their death or deterioration.'_

 

"Admittedly, it didn't make a lot of sense at first.." Jim explains, and I frown against the fabric of his suit, my lips finding his neck - the side not bandaged. First-in-command? Who the fuck are these people? Why is Jim in a suit, and who the hell is Coates? How is he  _alive?_ I wish I could tell you that I cared more about some of those questions. I care that he's here, that he's in my arms.

Coates pipes up, taking notice of my expression. His voice is clear and patient. "Rocky Vince Carlton was elected by the former first, an Arnold De Motte." He explains simply, eyes swivelling to Jim, who nods at him to go on. "..Carlton in turn, elected for-"

  
"For Jim to take his place." Ange finishes, catching on and looking between them both. Jim nods.

"Before he realised that Sebastian was still alive." He adds, wincing a little at the effort of speaking. He slides a hand to rest on his bandages, and I put mine lightly on top, worriedly wondering if he'll have more scars. The Magpie and his porcelain skin..

 

"..So you.. inherit ..Rocky's men?" I ask, frowning as I think of the innocents that Jim killed before, and how these men allowed him to do it, silently cleaning up the messes afterwards. This was what Rocky wanted, and that thought is unsettling. Granted, the fucker probably never thought it would go like this.. but.. _Rocky's men?_

Jim's hands settle on my own reassuringly, and he picks up where he left off. 

We listen in uneasy silence as he describes that the men wanted acceptance of the card contract, that unable to speak, he'd had to write questions on a piece of paper, and have them answer. That he'd asked about the work they did, and had been told accordingly. That he'd asked after me and Ange, had been desperate to see us. That he'd asked about getting us off our charges, bringing us with him into whatever this new venture promised to be. 

 

That he'd asked about his singing voice, and they'd told him that it was gone. Vocal cords damaged. That one day, he'd be able to talk. But that, for all intents and purposes, the Magpie was dead.

A slight sadness flickers across his expression for a moment, and I swallow, pulling him back lightly against my chest. 

"..I'm sorry, Jim." Ange says, and Jim just shakes his head, though his eyes find the carpet for the moment.

I hold him tight, my hands slipping beneath that suit jacket to roam over the shirt, my words softly teasing in the light of the news, despite my heart sinking for him.  
"..You didn't want to go on another tour anyway."

He punches me in the chest, and I give a half wry smile, and rest my face back against his shoulder. I know it must be difficult. Even knowing that he hated touring, I knew how much he likes music. Likes playing his guitar, and trying out new things, even if he hated the crowds. Loves his music, but hates the industry. I feel an ache at the thought that I'll never hear him sing again, but it could have been so much worse.

I know. I've lived that Hell for a week. I know the alternative.

"It's not the end, though." Jim says quietly, bolstering himself. "I've seen what they do." He turns to me, his eyes determined on mine, even through his rasp. "They  _don't_ slaughter innocents. They don't. We.. don't."

 

I run my fingers down his cheek. "You accepted." I say simply. "You accepted the terms of the card."

Coates nods, and Jim bites his lips for a moment. "..You're my second." 

 

I frown, a little concerned. "Jim, we don't even know-"

" _I_  know." He says firmly. "I can do something that I enjoy, with them. I can orchestrate it all. The things they do.. It was only poisonous when Rocky ran things." 

 

Ange makes a sound of disgust in her throat, but I squeeze his hands, frowning. I accepted that he needed this a long time ago. The murders. At least this way, he can have some level of control over them. And if we believe them.. find a way to keep innocents out of it. I'd probably agree to anything, right now. The relief is a constant wave, crashing over me, not able to believe that it's truly him, each time my eyes settle on his.

"Can we trust them?" I say quietly, resignedly, after a moment, and all three of us look over to Coates, still enthusiastically eating his apple. Jim just leans closer.

"They answer to me, now. So.. we'll see." His eyes find mine, and I could still be dreaming. Ange is going to wake me up any second, with a bowl of hot soup and a comforting hand. Jim's mouth grazes my jaw, and I shiver, closing my eyes as his teeth close around the bed of my ear for a moment. And then he kisses my cheek. 

  
"I'm sorry." He says words inaudible to anyone but me. "A week.. I can't imagine.. One night thinking you were dead was.. enough to make me insane." The words are low, morose, and I nod. It has. It's been a living nightmare. "..I've been recovering. Trying to speak. Making sure that I was.. doing the right thing." 

I nod. I wonder how much time it took to decide whether or not to return.

 "I need you with me." He says at last, and the words are as quietly pleading as I'd ever thought I'd hear from Jim. He's admitting that he's been selfish. But it isn't, really. I need him just as much. Ange leans in, unable to hear what he's saying. When Jim sits back, he's watching me hopefully, and I just crawl over him and slide a hand into his hair, kissing him hard.

Coates clears his throat and walks over, presenting two slim sliver memory sticks. 

"Details of your new identities will be on these." Coates announces as I pull my mouth away from Jim's, and he laughs quietly, breathlessly beneath me. I take one of the sticks, marked 'S.M', and slip it into my pocket. Coates holds one out to Ange, too, and she looks at Jim, a little baffled.

"Me too?" She asks softly, and he nods, pushing me back lightly to let him sit up.

"You've looked after me for years." Jim answers, fingers hovering at his bandages with the slight ache of speaking. "It's only fair that I return the favour. And I didn't think you'd like prison."

It seems insane. Mad. Utterly fucking impossible, and yet here he is. Solving our problems, fixing my heart, dragging us with him onto his next pursuit. I give an incredulous laugh as Jim winks, and Ange joins in, Coates interrupting to press the stick into her hand, and add;

"And that was a  _very_ good shot."

She shakes her head, paling a little at the words, though there's a small smile on her face. "..I'm not sure I'm cut out for this.. whatever it is.. but.. fuck.."

"You're in?" Jim asks, dark eyes lighting up, and I'm watching him, still basking in my disbelief. I don't think I've ever been so happy.

"For now." Ange warns, pointing a finger at him. "But I'm watching you."

"Wouldn't have it any other way.." Jim drawls, a shadow of that old smirk on his lips. I tilt my head at Ange's memory stick - 'A.G.R.A'. She catches me looking, and closes it into her fist. 

"Angelina Grace Rose Aines." She says after a moment, grimacing. "Ange was just.. easier."

 

\--

 

It's twenty five minutes later, and we're all still talking. Just sitting on my sofas, Jim laying in my arms as he recounts his version of the past week. It's nothing like ours, of course. For once, the crowds have been focused on us. Ange barely even makes it to the shops without a press ambush, every newscaster wanting an exclusive on the Magpie's tragic death.

"It was on every channel.." I say, looking down at Jim, stroking my fingers through hair that's now much more suitably tousled. "Breaking news, all over the world." I swallow at the memory. It'll haunt me forever.

"It's easier this way.." Jim answers, tracing the 'M' on my chest through my t shirt. "I could never take the stage again, anyway. And.. I can't afford to be recognised." He tugs a little uncomfortably at the suit lapels, and I grin, deciding that he much prefers his leather.

"Sir." Coates' voice comes loud and authoritative from the door, and he holds a hand to one of his ears, touching an earpiece that I've only just noticed. "Approaching police officer, sir. I'd recommend getting out of here."

"It's D.I Adamson." Ange says, setting down her coffee mug with a clank, surprisingly calm to say that we've both just agreed to join a criminal organisation. Though that's not what we really agreed to. What we've really agreed to, is staying with Jim. 

Miraculous, fucking impossible, Jim.

Jim sits up, before wincing and clapping a hand to his throat, and my hands are immediately hovering around him, trying to help. He bats them away. "Stop fussing." He warns affectionately, before standing and buttoning his jacket, a dull flutter going through me rather amusedly at the authority that he already exudes. His eyes are bright, excited, and if I didn't know better, I'd say it was the beginnings of a high.

Coates herds us out of the flat, down the back stairs, and I just have time to grab my bag. It's still packed from last week. I didn't have it in me to sort it out. Luckily for us. Jim's hand closes tightly around mine, and Ange hurries in front, the four of us climbing into a sleek black Merc - though I grunt at the stabbing ache through my stomach. Jim frowns apologetically and I close the door behind us, before ghosting my fingers over his own bandaging.

"Don't feel bad. Stab for a stab."

"You didn't do this." He reminds me amusedly, clicking on his seatbelt as Coates speeds away with a squeal of the brakes.

"Indirectly." I say. "I should have killed him before he had the chance."

"Mm.. Ange robbed us both of the privilege."

She looks back a little incredulously, and if she could reach us, I think she might box us around the ears.  
"Are we really having this conversation?" She asks indignantly, Jim smirking as I bite back a grin, looking out of the window.

"Are you sure about this?" I ask him quietly after a long few moments, and when he turns back to me, he looks happier than he has since I've known him. With no exaggeration.

His expression is relaxed, a shadow of a smile on his lips with eyes that are soft, yet determined. His rockstar career is gone, along with his beautiful voice, and yet he's practically glowing. He laces our fingers.

"I am." He says, and that's all I need to hear.

 From that very first night, I knew I was hooked on this wry little bastard. I'll follow him anywhere, and I mean that. I kiss him again, and Coates and Ange share a sound of disgust, before looking at each other amusedly. I don't care. Nobody can take this moment from me. Hell - nobody can take him from me, not ever again. I'd love to see someone try, after what we've been through.

 

It.. it still seems so unbelievable, but we're happy. We can be happy. I grin silently in my disbelief, our hands entwined as the car heads towards the outskirts of the City. 

We have some kind of future, with whatever we're getting ourselves into. The next adventure.

 

The Magpie might be dead, but Jim and I are safe and sound. 

 

And there isn't a person on Earth that could bring us crashing back down from that.

 

\--

 


End file.
